Making my way closer, a driven person out of control is becoming a oneness with all the things never associated with adulthood. Theirs don't stop spinning on their axis and there is no such thing as mirages in mature years when things mud over and fog the senses into believing anything shelved in them. Dogs were fed everyday. Play was something an adult was too high on the scale to do. Congratulations given for advancements in a big corporation. The prime goals were hierarchy as an executive, having a secretary do the work when it happens to come in -- every so often. Donut-coffee lives were a mainstay existence for gown-ups. Sit and talk about things that we both know we don't give a damn about, but because we passed that curtain click-moment when everything stops and you are proclaimed adult, we suddenly find it enlightening to talk about the president. Coffee table conversations took over each day. Suddenly everything's alright. You're a legal citizen.
Capers on ice. Augmented persona. Driving a red Cadillac down the hill. Lovers in a galaxy. Creeping time. Mounting fortresses. Seven pounds of rapture. No peace. Carolina highway points to an unvisited area. Shape-glow. Riders rush through a baroque passage, tunnels permit. Shit stirs up a mass confusion. Genuine parts were missing. A tank to fill with lead. Shoeboxes brown and jagged edges like folklore. Diamond embroidered. Paunches land face up.
RIVER BED 60
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