… even though we ain't got scratch …
To: The Boss
Date: March 31
They took me with them to campus. Standing in a drizzle as marijuana smoke drifts past, we waited for the doors to open wild music to our evening. Stood in beards and sparkling long hair, in fur coats and Army surplus greens and stovepipe hats harking harking harking back to eras long past but half-told and half-relived in history, in fourth-grade goodness, awaiting Godot or another round of sneezing. Hold me closer, Hilda. Soon we shall dance. Or whatever I do, being moved by you in motion.
Suffer the guards their flashlights in the gym concert. “Smoking isn’t allowed,” though everybody does. “Dancing isn’t allowed,” either.
Then marshmallows rained from heaven.
All of the story continues by CLICKING HERE.