The dusty trail,
dusky skies, given to sound, sipping elixir. I gave my mind to the
conversation. I was exhausted. Tugging. Looking. Dining on gesticulations.
Unusual persons. Nothing unique. Couldn’t tell you much more than those dark
clouds can tell. The streets are illuminated. The gravel is hardcore. The
streetcar is moving fast enough. Life is different here. People are
comfortable. I have to remember that. Back home, we’re disagreeable, cantankerous,
reanalyzing any and everything. Northern minds have seeped into the south.
Disproves the comfortability theory. Never thought to meet the skies. Never knew
the dirt was so talkative. The old mills have been here for a time. The grain
is hard spoken, the cotton is soft exaggeration, the insistence is relentless.
All to do is smoke a cigar, sip brandy, or drink millions. Souls on fire; souls
lonely; the ache is the dimension—filled flowerbeds, secret salacity, coveting
convenience.
