Thursday, October 6, 2016

This Storm Will Kill You

Recognizing my propensity for drama I seem to have hunkered down with my posse behind a picket fence perched on a rare hill at the edge of a hipster's enclave in Tampa. Life's good. By some measures it crawls along. By some it flys like a saber jet.

Revelations rise as though the drinking water was laced with LSD, then fade as if the preacher suddenly showed up for Wednesday dinner.

Ghosts? When I was a kid, ghosts scared me to death. Then I grew up and realized there are no ghosts. Now I'm old and I know ghosts.

Hurricanes come and it's just like 1962. Nobody bought bottled water then. That feeling in the air, though- you never forget it.

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