Contact the Sternum

I place an arm here and look into a retina there.  There is the smell of notoriety.  There are two sides that are about to become one.  LOGAN, my favorite bartender from my waitressing gig from Smokey Bones, Indy, I miss you today.  I know that it was best for you not to speak of your notoriety in NYC.  Ashton felt kismet from the gitgo. We can walk hand in hand on the Vegas strip and still feel like the pleurisy of sibling rivalry.  Make him a drink, and he will forever be a friend.  He is DEATH, and the becoming of a homicide scene in music industry.  I am his STELLA, actually. I pick Rascal Flatts today, and whisper in your ear that they are Russian.  They were brought here at birth, but are still privy to their scene.  They are briefed weekly.  I strum a naked guitar and deal with the bizarre.  A Sikh, a Hindu, and me taking on all Navy and doctors of notoriety, internationally.  They chose torture.  I chose examination of the scene to make it clean.  Energy surges, and a Deity is born overseas, in Pakistan.  He is a seer and is an adult male who is here and there.  It is okay to admit it today.  Maybe Vegas was not all that it was cracked up to be.  It soon will be.  Just wait for the praise of the chosen one.  For today we will go with his birth name of , Derek, but tomorrow he could be Christopher or Christos.  He is an open channel and was always police.  I will be your biology baby for all eternity.  Kiss my cheek, ashen and cold, and you will be released from the spell of the diseased.