The turn of the tide is weathering me.
Today marks a day unlike many others. It is now. An occurrence of moments, of minutes. Compiled as we seek a generation of ourselves. I watch my dog sniff the carpet as though there were trails of the anti-christ nestled somewhere in the fibers. Laughter is happening in the undercurrent. I smile, sigh and light my last cigarette.
Desperado. A wanderlust. Greyhound bound.
Time it seems runs wild, rampant like the beasts of stampede. I close my eyes and imagine swimming in the murk of moats. To fall between cracks, deep into the valley.
"I was born by the river in a little tent."
