As hard as it is to leave the Toronto-like humidity of Minneapolis, I've dusted off my old kit bag and joined the caravan for the drier, hotter west. There I expect to see old friends and near dead relatives, chew on some bleached bones and listen to old rumors.
Brown liquor, cold lager beer and fresh Cuban cigars.
Awkward silences for those that never met the match and never will.
And then it's all gonna break.
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