drive. wind. dead.

tin can, suntan; pen running circles round the words between the lines.

you'd better head back to tennessee, jed. you'd better not remember me dead. fade back to where you came from black jack smack in the middle of the war between the times.

sometimes streams run through my thoughts and make their way onto a page. sometimes bob speaks to you and sometimes the sun is pouring tears of rage. it feels ambitious and futile, but i want to keep trying.

to change it all.