Here, I am slow motion. Layers of break-neck life peeling away. I know it’s the wide-open expanse of frontier plainsong. Forever rolling and howling as the speedometer pushes 85 and The Grateful Dead wander their highway through Althea in Nassau. I am small here.
If you haven’t yet, you should head over to FishingPoet and read the rest. I usually try to stick to salty subjects here on FlatsWalker, but some stuff is simply so good you’ve got to make allowances. Besides, it certainly falls under the heading of “Spilled Ink”.Continue Reading