Ingress to dirt, 6ft underrated and dying. Like water that needs a drink or brain that needs a think. I hear the sound of gas as it fills my tank. The lost bags and wrong taken bridges are piling up like mad markers to unthought murals. The junk I have lost in my own junk drawer is astounding, remarkable, note worthy. If I have it, sometimes I don’t have it. What I once had, the good times, they are peeling away like the wrapping paper of opened presents. But the paper is the present, and the argyle socks are now made of wood. Hand shake deals over barrels on the porch give way to thunderous rounds of thunder in the distance. Because, well, if you’re on the porch then there will be thunder. Thunder overhead, over heard.
