Black.
All around.
Lost in space.
Like I'm some sorta captain kirk with no crew.
The road stretches like an unlit compass, and the passing lights fade in and out like the flickering of distant galaxies.
The mg is my enterprise and we have seen the backs of many worlds.
Then there are the stars. Millions of them.
Millions of years old.
Guides to the ancients.
Onward west-bound.
I know the sea and the sand are there, but in the darkness of space they're as real as dreams.
The explosions of a million tiny suns push me through the endless black.
And I remember I am not alone.
My Killers,
and Zevon.
They talk to me, and don't expect an answer,
Or an opinion.
They are oblivious,
uncaring,
But wise and spiritual.
No bull Shit to bandy.
Just words.
real words,
true words, processed feeling,
ambiguous to some,
doctrine to others.
to me they offer
an escape from the black,
however brief
I like words.
Writing them.
Reading them.
Good words.
There are so few that interest me now.
Bukowski is dead.
Gemmell too.
The Shit that clutters the world these days could crush a man.
The black beckons,
And we follow.
