memori
He sees the joggers on the sidewalk and snears "Why don't they work for a living". His muscles, hardened and stiff, in the glow of the dashboard. The years of unending farmwork seem to have taken there toul on his soul. His sweat, oozing whiskey... I shrink into the backseat and look out at mother moon watching over me.
posted by The Joyful Artist @ 10:59 a.m.
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