(on returning)

My brain is a whiplash smile full of dreams of forgotten weekends, blurred and obscured by another week of borderline responsibility but by no means lost to the annals of age.

The raft, capturing the flag. billy idol at the top of my lungs with friends and strangers staring with the geese as my head does it's full rotation over a quiet town in pennsylvania. apples. wenches. the love between two pairs of seventeen year old breasts at a tuxedo affaire (of which, we were granted open voyeuristic access so curse you and your legal ramifications). booze. booze. booze. and ten dollar cartons of shit cigars that stain the very quality of the soul (for the better perhaps, though my partner in crime will - no doubt - assume the worst).

But now i don my tweed. i huff one more american spirit (curse you hippies with your expansive mud sticks). listen to the thermals and anticipate another tuesday no different from the rest. work. perhaps sex (but with visitors in town the chance of your skrap getting some good old fashioned loving in appears to be dwindling exponentially).

Maybe a few cocktails to abate the sense that we're all nowhere faster than we could have imagined.

Though i do love the jacket and i suppose that's well worth something.