Beanzie01

Beespunchaw Kaj ma bingonna sa reeneechu Ateema hoohah sa wata stik Oh, jee neega Ma beespunchaw Ateema Dobra chuba ta nek jee tuk sa La sa shapa-keesay heeru je Oh, beespunchaw Sa ateema Konchee ma cheeka acheeta Jee settah not Jee settah kalku Jee neega ma beespunchaw Beespunchaw Kooyay sa ree outfit tah pogwa Acheeta jee tunkee tah bolla Oh, jee neega Ma beespunchaw Konchee ma cheeka acheeta Jee settah not Jee settah kalku Jee neega ma beespunchaw Beespunchaw Kooyay sa ree outfit tah pogwa Acheeta jee tunkee tah bolla Oh, jee neega Ma beespunchaw

Jee jee no nakay No kav kachay Jee kyay u peetch disayki lulloo U not stuka Choy u xpmasi jee U ap-xpmasi moona choy jee settah Jee jee no kavaa bolla Foo tapun ooma Jee jee no wasichay Foo tapun ooma Joppay ma pateesa Naga settah achuta Jee dropa stuka tapun nawee u Wata jee jee dropa Settah konchee sa je Jee wakay ree ree, ree ree weekee Jee jee no kavaa bolla Foo tapun ooma Jee jee no wasichay Foo tapun ooma Jee jee kyay kawsay, jee jee Crispo weekee du nawee Ap-xpmasi crispo ta jewz Yeah, je neeja lulla u Jee jee no nakay No kav kachay Jee kyay u peetch disayki lulloo U not stuka Choy u xpmasi jee U ap-xpmasi moona choy jee settah Je

The day is no longer, A hot sun is now a chilling moon. She looks at me from the bedside table, My mistress knows I’ve had a rough day, She seems to smile at  me, Chrome smearing the walls like gum on a sidewalk, I hold her, I turn her on, The rain falls hard, She will give me comfort, I turn off the light. She is in wild drive, As first she plays an old gaming song, The sort of thing that reminds human germs like me of childhood, Yes, Riding a pig through an Aboriginal village, This is the adventure she takes me on first, I/close my eyes, but not before she shifts gear. Ah, there, Coltrane, Proper sleepsong, There’s the ticket. I

Ernest Baldwin made his way to through the streets. He was on his way to work, as the director of Brookhaven Hospital. Unlike the more notable Alchemilla Hospital on the other side of Silent Hill, Brookhaven catered to mental health needs; locals called it an asylum. Ernest’s position meant that he’d seen more disturbing, wretched things than the average man. It was only the previous that a patient had pulled a sign down from the hospital wall and attacked him with it. These situations worried Ernest less than they would any other. As he walked from his home up Nathan Avenue, he couldn’t help but notice something was wrong.

Frank Sunderland had barely gotten himself out of bed before picking up the phone. He was the superintendent of South Ashfield Heights, a complex of small one bedroom apartments in downtown Ashfield, a stereotypical yet dark and somewhat barren town the other side of Portland. Frank, despite being the building’s higher power, was humble enough to allow his tenants to have the more spacious rooms. His; Room 105, at the centre of the first floor corridor; was barely the size of any other room’s kitchen. It featured a counter for food preparation, a small television fifteen years out of date, an airing cupboard with a toilet and show