7.10.2010

you've got a

Blue eyed soul. And I don't think you will ever let it go.

You are a cymbal crash and a snare drum bang. A roughstock pony and a Sundance all rolled up into a difficult sequence. Your sky is a star-quilt.

You wear your hat at a tilt because you can't get it right and you don't rely on mirrors. You walk with a limp because the world has worn half of you down.

An owl follows you. He's telling you to go home. His night-time song haunts your last days. He's waiting just like you.

He follows you to White Clay, lands on your old Ford that won't start. So you start walking north with the others.

They might make it. You won't.


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