I sit in this bookstore where I feel detached from the young and too young to be the old. Miles away, memories come in with the fog and rest their toes at the edge of the water. The only promise of life is the sound of fury from beyond what only the lost can see.Continue reading “Sitting at Powell’s”
In my yellow polka dots, I had no notion I didn’t match and no idea you didn’t care. God we were so young then – and reckless, just not reckless enough.