My dear, when the winds of Victoria, the waters of Peru, the volcanic lava of Provincial Bora-Bora lap its way up to you, with a flock of purely blue ravens. May the embellishment of a nanosecond blitz your bubble in four-hour intervals. I have just returned from the pet shop, and I overheard an oriental babe cooing about a pregnant Armenian cat. She was sexy and 15 pounds overweight, but that's the kind of weight I can deal with. In Birmingham, England, its Friday night. In Capestrano, the swallows have returned. In Lansing, a one-leggеd pimp is dancing the boogaloo. In Mechanicsburg, a logger is slain. In Las Vеgas, there is little culture, just coinage, wigs, and two-bed hard luck stories. Oh yeah, and free coffee for the bums. My dear, may the big organ grinder in the sky suck you up into its cascading formal gown, in lieu of leverage, as the last Sacramento Scorpion does the slow walk to the drainer. And my dear, may you find a low-maintenance man in need, high-maintenance gal to spin his gears, bust his spleen, and make him feel like a bishop to Queen Five. In El Salvador, a man is sweating as he rips an oil drum apart with an ax for 35 cents an hour. I go now. May the winds of eternity kiss your forehead.
Bond
8-22-97, 1:49 pm