January 29, 2014

Softly we sway trying to touch your distant memory. Reaching out for a mad man carelessly throwing himself to the ground flailing and screaming to our souls. As mad as a child, an infant, in a box left by the side of the road. You barefooted bastard always chasing the dawn. The end is finally in sight, just over the ridge, we chase.

Thinking of Jim on an overcast day