Maybe I want to be an old vagabond wandering the beaches of Santa Barbara—telling stories no one believes, rambling and muttering to myself as I go. Spitting and mumbling—the old, crazy renegade on the midnight train. A moonlit apparition with a pocket full of tales.
I would lay lazily on the shore, with my hair in knots and tangles; sand in my teeth, whispering secrets to the moon. The chronicles of a life spent pursuing the thing people hope to capture once they retire from chasing the American dream.
Warmed by the sweet smelling memories—when my hands were strong and my body taut.
- JBWM (aesthetic-value)