S & S, this is for you.

There is a girl. As my train crosses the Charles over 17000 miles away, and I gaze at lights luminously reinforcing that my own path has strayed far, far; I’ve built my own destiny: more than enough to know she doesn’t matter to me. At last, I’m done where she’s only begun. Poor girl, poor […]


She croons: “Who do you think you are?” Her voice is like cream liquor poured over smooth, sunny wheat that tells me; like long stretches of Nevada highway, like staring into a stranger’s eyes, like swilling beer while trumpets trill, that it’s time to move on.