Never Enough

There's nothing hearter, more important, more painful than following a dream. I'm just a simple man, and my improvisational minimalism has never been enough to reach it ... I'm never enough, a fact.

Generally peeking and beaking and squeaking and leaking and seeking, just like you baby, I never made it in Hollywood, or anywhere else, LOL! At that time, TBH 110%, I really thought I was the smartest guy in the world, I was the phunniest guy in the galaxy, I was the greatest showman on Earth. That success was simply inevitable and that I would enjoy the collision and all its perks to the fullest, without being suicidal. I was that ridiculous, that naive, really, not kidding. Whoops, I hope nobody’s noticed that biggest strength of mine. Nopee, I won’t tell my weakest secret, actually a shitload, to any body, however beautiful and naked and sexy that bone may be, neva eva, like eva, like really! But once I had to deal with the real bureaucracy and fakeness of Hollywood, when I saw it with my own ice and skin, how the industry worked, how impersonal and unpleasant and other hundred adjectives of phoney traits the studio agents, producers, etc, etc were, I just wanted to throw up, rushing to the bathroom, to put it mildly, to be polite. I slammed quite a few doors and fucked them very much for their attention and well-wishing, you know me, baby, your passionately decent motherfucker. I meant thanked, sorry.

You wanna see the beautiful movie, a complete fine “product of the genius”, but you, for sure, don’t wanna know the nauseating process of making it, the raw and ugly stuff, the behind-the-scenes crap, like processed shiit, err, food, you’d puke, too, like when a real beauty ditches participating any further in a beauty contest.

One particular company based in NYC, the Goatsingers, the name had raised my eyebrows while my eyeballs literally rolled like there was light at the end of the tunnel, it was a highballing freight train, and its biggest jerk Harvey Keitel, pissed me off more than many others reviewing my dozen scripts, turning me down, wishing me good luck as they opted to not work with such a “very talented young post-communist would-be screenwriter and movie director, whom his compatriot Milos Forman, a Czech Hollywood icon, also didn’t recommend”. Like I said, I didn’t make it, no big deal, screw ‘em.

Generally peeking and beaking and squeaking and leaking and seeking, just like you baby, NO LOL, I’ve been through a lot. I don’t know much in life, or at least I don’t remember, death is my constant, my sixth sense only sometimes makes sense. I just dig dead people on my permanent vaca. Are you taken or available, baby?

Am I not the silliest Dante you’ve ever met and heaven yet? Because my plane has crashed too many times on my way to you, my final destination, only to be with you. Yet there is the black box that has all the data of my immortal flights recorded, and one day in this life or the next we’re gonna open it and cry, just fucking cry together, you’ve taught me to cry. I’m such a pussy, though I want yours so bad. But instead, all I get is Pussy Riot. Publick or pubic relations, Licorice?

WTF! Are you with the riot police? Are you goon-ah ah-rest me for falling for you, sending me flying into cardiac arrest? K, arrest me, so that I can fuckanally ah-rest in peace! Not RIP, Wendy! Mami, why are you so fucking vulgar? I’m too chai for you to saxophone me. You forget I’m pretty funkish monk-ish, not fuckishing or humpinking. Nopee, I’m not referring to your skrew, err, skool fish, my fywrit dish, spare me!

Baby, I’m dying to discover all the treasure inside your black box, you’re my immortal, my soulmate, my twin flame. You’re my destiny. You will sob all you can to drown me like Titanic, yours. I am Titanic, if not a Titan.

No, I’m not Jackass, I’m Jack, Rose, your Jack! Rose is my fa-woe-rite flower, and I’ve never had it in my jungle, err, botanical garden. Pinky, err, Rosy, I won’t ham-ping-pong you, though it’s our Fryday, I won’t hump you Bunny, I promise you Shelly, pinking, err, ping-ponging is sacred, it’s your taboo and my tattoo! Kaboom?

That’s why I’m soooooooooo little obsessed with you, like really healthily!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You’re too much of a wildlife for me, such an amazing lioness! Are you a wild love???????????? OMG OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (the lion’s balls & jaws drop as the lioness rolls her starstruck & lovestruck & lovesick eyes)

Though I feel more like an island, being Love, not Pick Up Art. You are mine, Rose, at least your lips are, when you look at me bookish without avoiding eye contact, when you’re close, when your heartbeat accelerates, before I faint in your Fifty Shades of Grey torture chamber, oh, how our Red Room of Pain is made, Anastasia Steele.

I might be your embittered, or sour, baby, don’t look at my last name, it’s totally fyke, Lincoln Six Echo, Scarlett, as I’m struggling to fit into your highly structured world, in your isolated, shack-led compound, questioning how truthful that world really is upon having sweet dreams that I know are not from my own experiences. You’re very different, berry berry rare. You echo in my mind, you echo in my soul, I need you to echo in my body, or me in yours, me in you echoing. Ecologically speaking, obviously. I mean seeking and peeking and beaking and squeaking and leaking.

Nonetheless, Substack classifies me as Dumbass Tarzan, so I don’t really know who I am, Jane! You’re always welcome to my jungle, free bed and board and lots of lovemaking. Want my $150K world model train collection, my volcano piece of land, too, not my Restricted Serious Entertainment Ebooks? No, I’m not being ridiculous! I’m not scaring you away, my smartass Jane! You can’t be fucking serious to be running away from me, so phar phar away, fuck, baby?

The Greatest Showman - Never Enough Lyric Video

I'm trying to hold my breath
Let it stay this way
Can't let this moment end
You set off a dream in me
Getting louder now
Can you hear it echoing?
Take my hand
Will you share this with me?
'Cause darling, without you

All the shine of a thousand spotlights
All the stars we steal from the night sky
Will never be enough
Never be enough
Towers of gold are still too little
These hands could hold the world but it'll
Never be enough
Never be enough

For me
Never, never
Never, never
Never, for me
For me
Never enough
Never enough
Never enough
For me
For me
For me

All the shine of a thousand spotlights
All the stars we steal from the night sky
Will never be enough
Never be enough
Towers of gold are still too little
These hands could hold the world but it'll
Never be enough
Never be enough

For me
Never, never
Never, never
Never, for me
For me
Never enough
Never, never
Never enough
Never, never
Never enough
For me
For me
For me

For me

Every night in my dreams
I see you, I feel you
That is how I know you go on

Far across the distance
And spaces between us
You have come to show you go on

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more, you open the door
And you're here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

Love can touch us one time
And last for a lifetime
And never let go 'til we're gone

Love was when I loved you
One true time I'd hold to
In my life, we'll always go on

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on (why does the heart go on?)
Once more, you open the door
And you're here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

You're here, there's nothing I fear
And I know that my heart will go on
We'll stay forever this way
You are safe in my heart and
My heart will go on and on

Our internet love is this hard breaking, heart wrenching, pamper drenching version, not much, but better than nothing … See? I’m never enough, I never really measure up. I’m an angel crybaby. A spectacular fucktuary. I didn’t wanna tell you, but I love angel kisses, they just match my immortal love style, they are my dynamite to light the sky when it’s too dark, when I just can’t smile, when I pretend I’m the greatest showman, being actually just a sorry scene.

Titanic • My Heart Will Go On • Celine Dion

Thank you for co-erect-ing me, just another no sorry scene, in love, two cannot be sorry. Please don’t tear up, because I don’t have any tissue, I can’t lick your pearls through the killing screen, I will do that only in person, the only way to dry your endless tears. I don’t do toy-latte-tree, I’m not a lumberjack. I wouldn’t dare do toilet poetry. I’m sooooo big, that you never see me, I’m sooooo loud, that you never hear me. I’m so fucking tiny, that you can never feel me. And I’m performing Salto Mortale 25/8, without a beginning, without an end, in slow mo and replay, like there’s no tomorrow, I don’t even sleep, not to lose you as I lose myself in you.

Sure, I’m the most ridiculous parson in the world, the greatest showman in Perv, but at least I will make you laugh with my religiously timeless stupidities. Aren’t you fucking tired of all that palming crying? Because I am! Crybabies just do that, cry. I’m fucking deep, though I appear shallower than or as shallow as a grave. Oh, and I’m not Johnny Depth, kay kay kay? Dig it!? Not Ku Klux Klan, baby?

A bad boy with a heart of gold wins the love of a good girl, whose boyfriend sets out for revenge. Allison is a "square" good girl who has decided she wants to be bad and falls hard for Cry-Baby Walker, a Greaser (or "Drape" in John Waters parlance).

Spoofing Elvis movies and Juvenile Delinquency scare films of the '50s, this movie follows the adventures of Cry-Baby who, though he is sent to juvie, is determined to cross class (and taste) boundaries to get Allison back.—Linda (& Moo)