The Donna Vulture

We are the layer of grime on your dusted tube amps owned by a past generations messiah who use to fiddle on it at late nights, and never bequeathed his gift of divine knowledge to the world for his timid soul tittered at the thought of such a tormenting place. We are the suppressed thoughts shunned by even the bookstore owners where you get such ludicrous thoughts. We are all the hopes and dreams you wished for in your inhabitable "steppe" climate prison. We are your tortured soul, with the black void ever encompassing your bright shining star within. We give it away. We are the lint in your lined pockets of the deteriorating thrift store blue jeans once owned by a generations past messiah who felt the same beating pain of having nothing in his pocket but lint, and the same beating pain of the thought that he can't buy his record albums with lint. The aspiring sensation of such a realization to write these thoughts down. The love, the hate, the love, the hate. We were made by our suburban house wives, who used to have the childish thought with the tint of love, of living a happy life in the blossoming hills covered with pink flowers and the kids playing and dancing with glee, those thoughts lost in the hustle and bustle of realization that it is a fantasy, they had their kids anyway for reasons unknown, reproduction. they should have known better than to let the father give his son the light of the generations last messiah in the palpable form of a dusty record. They should have known better to not let the cold black vinyl touch the young soft skin of their son. For from this record, the thoughts and feelings forgotten by the father, the pure unaltered, unfiltered, smooth sensation of understanding when the sound waves hit the ears and run through the boy's body up his spine chilling the stink, and sweat of his manhood for eternity.----Dandy



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Tucks Video Production class end of year video