When Art-in-the-Desert sits in his room, zombies dream inside of him and you can smell socks and weed and cig smoke. pic.twitter.com/GhgbnO4Mt7
— Peppy Ooze - UnEdit (@ooze_ooze_ooze) June 12, 2015
While Iman is snoring under the Tibetan silk sheets, Bowie is awake and smoking cigs.
(In fact find what brand if you want by clicking here: Ciggy-plays-Guitar.)
He's building the odd weed maybe and one thing I imagine him thinking is:
(In fact find what brand if you want by clicking here: Ciggy-plays-Guitar.)
He's building the odd weed maybe and one thing I imagine him thinking is:
My career since about 1980 (was it?) anyway when I left Berlin and moved next door to the Junot Diaz family to New Jersey it's has been this urge to like flit between minimal and like these maximal kind of tendencies and I did Let's Dance and ...
Fuck, he concludes.
He gets out of bed. He buzzes the intercom. He mutters something about what-the-fuck-Alan-where-are-you.
Then into the receiver he says: Al, sorry to wake you early but can you get on the telephone my old mate, whatsit, sorry I've been awake all night, but can you get me the old codger, he's in the UK at the minute, George Romero?
Oh and get a pancake for Iman cheers mate, says Bowie ... I imagine as I sit in my body of dreaming zombie meat.
