Bees, a pickup, cold bottles of beer, pocket knives, all to appease those in a system which is essentially a song, a coveted cauldron, a bit of old-story-fluff skidding through the days and nights, always involving whoever it can. People most of all, and almost all of the time. Plural of which is generation, insisting as it were, on the very altar itself, for some control to balance the unending progression of this, this, this, over and over until an altar may as well be the front sofa. Grass is a little taller here, a little golden, and the light strikes upon your eyes just right to blind about 30% of the populace. 5% of the populace are writers (of which a small percentage is also blind) and are happy to describe events to those who have long ceased caring. So next time you’re there, maybe for that weekend-rated vacation, maybe to look at old-timey shit, and a woman cocks her head, points it your direction, just walk away and stop breathing; grab a coffee with the non-dairy creamer at the R&L minimarket, and walk the fuck out. You may not hear it, but parts of your ears do, and it is nothing that can be resisted long—it is a dirge thrummmming, demanding, just a piece, just you, just your hands and knees.