an american dream of whiskey and starlight, the cool breeze through your hair. memories are what i am made of, because they are the only imagery that is solid enough for me to really grasp. sometimes if i am lucky i can mold a hunk of bronze in my mind, create an image powerful enough to stay there forever, maybe rusting and getting covered in bridshit and leaves, but permanent nonetheless. as i lied near the river passing between the past and the future i grasped at the fibers of who i am. pulling them all tight and trying to braid it all into a rope i can use to tie down my dreams.
a small harbor for launching boats. needlefish are always there, the water has always been that same murky green, the color of a swimming pool that no one will ever bother to clean. he was always getting frustrated so easily, i hope the same doesnt apply to me.