An old man sits on the dock, peddling his shiny lie to the fish below. I watch him from the rotting ship that sleeps in the green lagoon, where my friends make homes in the lost and forgotten. Here, grizzled men in hats gather to sell tall tales for free. The old man kicks off his boots at noon and a hums a song with lyrics that are as beautiful and chimeric as the colorful dancer turning silently before a throng he tells himself is there.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Should Have Done This Months Ago
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