January 2010
1 post
we hug the same plank.
I am shackled to an elegant, old, leather chair on the beach and there hasn’t been a person here in years, maybe ever. The only footprints are from cold fronts and storm systems. They tip toe quietly so as not to distract me from the main event. I liken this place to an eternal July between the hours of five and seven o’clock. The sun is squeezing out it’s last kiss upon each and...