The guitar drummed a frantic staccato inside the cab of my truck, music rang in my head like a familiar poison. It sounded like they had taken the singer and ran him through a tremolo pedal, which amplified the bleating goat quality of his voice. The truck climbed and dove through the country blackness, no houses had no lights on. Busted out picture windows g yawned on the faces of river granite stone built stores, black barn-board outbuildings loomed the curves overseeing my hurried passing. On I ran. I knew vaguely this was the endeavor of a diseased mind.
I started writing again last week, really writing, like I said I was going to. Just thought I'd share.
