Spent a day down the great Mississippi river with my editor bruiser enjoying the scenery of the great classic artery of Red Wing, MN. I bought the most expensive shoes I've ever owned, north of a $100. Once I danced a Spanish dance and made memories of surviving my old bass players youthful inebreations. How did we survive the bonfire on that beach with so many possibilities? At least he ended up married to the hair police somewhere on that bluff. And I had the best $5 leather jacket that money can buy. Loneliness is always in the prosecution. I guess they busted me over the head with the correct weight of rubber mallet. Because now they cured me of the menu of cancer they implanted. I always seem to pull out some slight victory because I can contact the dead, an Amy Winehouse platter in a vinyl record shop, the coolest place ever. Greg Norton was the main celebrity I was searching for today, since we didn't have the jazz to make it to Winona, or Twain's Hannibal lecture. Shhh, there was another sandy beach I kissed. The fields are so vacant this time of year, the scattered fragments of vegetation in the dirt and the absence of a blanket of illumination. What is there to do in one of the scattered farm houses, so desolate and solitary?
The cat is going to write this paragraph. Tell them you love them, then don't.
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