here is the last message i received from Mr. Dante Fontana:
I just want to tell you that there is something wrong. A RUPTURE of the CHAIN. You must begin. I do not know, because it is erroneamente, exactly like the creatures of the living. I don't know why this is. Much wealth! And the end to finish mercies! My cold time was false. The general hour of the problem is my late face when the last weeks will come to suffer and be GONE.
They are evaluated.
The doctor...nevertheless, it could find nothing. To all the cases it is one, a definitive Schufterei odor, this blogging, of that I preoccuparsi.
Tasks that finish are better. They are not buzzards in everything.
They are videos of the right. The distant ones of the
separated warnings, and see, this is what happens. IV's...more later.
and only minutes later the brave one tried to explain in words, dear reader, i could not comprehend:
...(like the tree of the trowel of the beginning of method)
Therefore, this that you can do:
- for the copy of incastonare the code
- in the context of the tree of the trowel of the beginning
(post for disporlo you must structure the
Beschreibers of manerá.
publish 'the certainty'
- the text it made, the code, more ahead
- the end
publish it to them is much that it would have to think
Something went wrong and I just learned to live with it.
I'll be gone.
and so i publish. i publish to you, for him: that you would think of him. it is his wish.
The proper place for me to start is in the beginning, with myself and the only video, to my knowledge, in which i appear:
OUR FAVORITE BAND, America's obscure, favorite, country band! Unbraced by the country-scenti until 2002, when chestnut-sniffing greyhound and obscuranter/mp3 blogger, scott soriano, atop his blog, Crud Crud, found an ugly little e.p. in a thrift store, fell in love and immediately pronounced his discovery, The Perfect American DIY 7":
Witness the only live footage ever captured of this reclusive clan. (E.Davies, trapped in a spiderweb, falls under the spell once again of the Recluse and seems to delight in the tension of the South's secretive antiheroes and wasted storytellers.) Writhe with snake handlers and choke down their poisonous hillbilly-pact in a bayou of bloated ecstasy, as they prod the edge of Man's law. Look away, look away...Dixieland, from the terrible ghost of neglect in this disturbing portrait of a singer mumbling the lyrics to his half-remembered song like Syd Barret from Bayou LaBloat.
Please stay tuned for updates on the decryptination of MDF's last message and for a few stunningly perfect blogettes, including:
a jerry lee lewis craunchy greatest videoblogette or two...
as well as blogettes on:
- Jason and the Scorchers' recent benefit concert for their ailing drummer
- a Nashville New Wave 80's Country-Punk Roundup
and, of course, more craunch than you can shake a craunch at!