We rode thru wet streets until the sun came up, staining clouds pink; spent nights in diners shaking from thick coffee like bad
speed steaming in the curved white bowls of our mugs, our sad & tired reflections in the washed out windows. I ate a lot of canned
fish. On the radio, we tuned in to ridiculous hobo stations that you could only get for a quarter of a mile in any direction, where
the guy was announcing thru some microphone he built out of a potato; and he'd play some waxy old American tune that left me
feeling like my pockets were full even tho they were mostly empty. & there was shouting and sleeping under heavy prairie skies
or next to lakes in the trunk of a car, and we did too many drugs, & there was luv and drama, some of that drama I created
myself. God, I was a foolish kid in love with the world.