Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

Abstract

now. My old man is certainly undergoing a renaissance. He has actually penetrated retirement like a big old dick and seems to be in the cliché, which says that life begins after the final punch-out.I quickly get to interview him. What gives? Weren’t you a choleric old fuck at my age already?He says he still is. To me, he is nicer than ever, so much so that I think of inviting him to my-age activities. So what, I say. What is it? Is it the beer?He says he thinks it is part of it. He drives the tiny Hyundai a little hunched, but he has on all those GANT threads he mothballed for retirement (he dressed like a Simpson's janitor before), and he is quick at the eyes and hands, like a pubescent prospect.No, I say. It isn’t just the beer.The intention is tension. Try that out now.And how many do you hold?Each one prevents your waterfalls from bleeding right.Either you are on the attack too hard, or you retreat too wishfully. Your wife is long ago a muddy lake’s reflection of you. And if you are a woman, your masculine side is clashing with your husband’s feminine one, and his masculine.What are you thinking? Nothing, these days, probably.But

Options

underneath, long as you are alive, the old rock bands are playing. The basement of your mind is indeed very sketchy, and you are careful to present a good image on ground level so that the police are never called to the site.But the police always come. Don’t they.They break in the door. The door is your tissue. Isn’t stuff always broken in the name of the law.Your intention about the money you will have is a reality about the money you do not have. Your intention about loving her the right way is a roadblock for any love to come through whatsoever. Sometimes you put up a construction site sign and call it a-going. The going you are thinking of is another intention which will be your death.Neither your death nor your love will you know when there is shitting your pants and tiredness. Do you remember how a full bottle’s content cannot be stirred? Enough with the metaphors.You can only know yourself. And you can only do it with the only currency there is.Incidentally, this currency happens to be the only free one there ever was and will be. Which is why we are so hellbent on calling it the most expensive one and call it the devil, and then, you know, go haywire.Rest.</article></body>

Your Intentions About Sex, Money, and Relationships

If your life is a problem, it is an energy problem.

Bring down your affairs about finance and relationships to their lowest common denominator. The currency is energy. This isn’t a metaphor. I fear people often cop out here by thinking that it is.

They talk of vibes and wakefulness and getting to things, but where is the energy coming from?

If there is fear, there is a lack of energy.

Skinny and dry I arrive from a fortnight of amorous interactions. I look at my old man looking to pick me up from the precipitous train station. At seventy soon, he contains more juice than he did when he was raising me, and certainly more aura of there is a life ahead. Most would on paper give him eight more years before death. With five g, coal burning, and huffed prostates, what else could it be?

But I don’t know. My old man is certainly undergoing a renaissance. He has actually penetrated retirement like a big old dick and seems to be in the cliché, which says that life begins after the final punch-out.

I quickly get to interview him. What gives? Weren’t you a choleric old fuck at my age already?

He says he still is. To me, he is nicer than ever, so much so that I think of inviting him to my-age activities. So what, I say. What is it? Is it the beer?

He says he thinks it is part of it. He drives the tiny Hyundai a little hunched, but he has on all those GANT threads he mothballed for retirement (he dressed like a Simpson's janitor before), and he is quick at the eyes and hands, like a pubescent prospect.

No, I say. It isn’t just the beer.

The intention is tension. Try that out now.

And how many do you hold?

Each one prevents your waterfalls from bleeding right.

Either you are on the attack too hard, or you retreat too wishfully. Your wife is long ago a muddy lake’s reflection of you. And if you are a woman, your masculine side is clashing with your husband’s feminine one, and his masculine.

What are you thinking? Nothing, these days, probably.

But underneath, long as you are alive, the old rock bands are playing. The basement of your mind is indeed very sketchy, and you are careful to present a good image on ground level so that the police are never called to the site.

But the police always come. Don’t they.

They break in the door. The door is your tissue. Isn’t stuff always broken in the name of the law.

Your intention about the money you will have is a reality about the money you do not have. Your intention about loving her the right way is a roadblock for any love to come through whatsoever. Sometimes you put up a construction site sign and call it a-going. The going you are thinking of is another intention which will be your death.

Neither your death nor your love will you know when there is shitting your pants and tiredness. Do you remember how a full bottle’s content cannot be stirred? Enough with the metaphors.

You can only know yourself. And you can only do it with the only currency there is.

Incidentally, this currency happens to be the only free one there ever was and will be. Which is why we are so hellbent on calling it the most expensive one and call it the devil, and then, you know, go haywire.

Rest.