Late morning, with sunshine.
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Fuck it, I’m going to Tuckerman’s,
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I tell myself that if I had access to a shop, the bike wouldn’t be a shade-tree redneck Frankenstein’s monster. That the mounts for the dished tank would be welded on, that the tabs and struts to mount the sundry parts would be attractive, perhaps hammer-finished steel.
I may even be telling myself the truth.
Oh Hell yes.
“… how long can I return and be, how long can the odour of the most deeply buried flowers, of the waves most finely pulverized on the high rocks, preserve in me their homeland where they can return to be fury and perfume?”
0-395-54418-1
Fucking Hell. Nearly done.
250 words a minute has it’s downsides.