After three days of wandering far from the safety of the wagon, I woke this morning with a yearning for redemption as I have never known. Upon this breakfast you see here- all awash in the morning sunlight like god’s own finger pointing the way out of the darkness, I cleaved to the bike, the forest, the candy corn and all that has served me true this last twelve months.
I know where sin lives and the manner in which it insinuates you into its company. Sin sends emissaries to soften your will. Body blows of clever art girls and Belgian beers with names like Old Railroad Spike and The Last Hoo-rah. One minute you are stopping in to pass along a message then the next thing you know you are gesticulating with a cigarette in your hand patiently explaining (to a cat on the sidewalk) exactly when Post-modernism began (which is of course, the first moment you consider the phrase-right?)
The late night set welcomes you back like you never left, even though every one of them are strangers. Like a long-running Broadway show, the characters never change, just the actors.
But the bar is not the only show in town and the cast of the morning ride in the forest were as hale a bunch of veterans as I have ever followed down the trail.
So either way, the show must go on.