| Not only the frenetic new rage which permeates Skiattle these days; my own dirty digs with broken tv, vcr, pc and dustmites as big as pigs; enough soft and hard copy to sort through from here to eternity; and the ever present wetfall propel me downtown to Avis for relief, for Booker T in the ear and away southeast to the badlands of low sun, high hands and sage. I am also drawn by the winking, blinking card-up simplicity of existance under the stars where even the rain is dry and nobody knows me. |