fishbeer

May 25 2010 9:11 pm

Girardin gueuze

Everybody stands up straight and taut with firmly ironed creases in their slacks.  The white sun microwaves the white sand and the wind barely moves the sharp edges of the men’s hair.  They stand perfectly still for an hour as their shadows describe one radian.  You walk up to each and stare them in the face an inch away.  The last finally blinks as a thin glaze of sweat oozes to the surface of his forehead and you catch a whiff of wet hay on the breeze.  A tight little ball of thick phlegm forms at the back of your tongue.


Broad-headed skink in the basement today.  Idaho in less than two weeks. 

 

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