I cherish the intelligence of crows, therefore I remain a fool. Just not your fool. the highway is the same old trail to hell, depending on the condition of the boatman, it seems. biting my tongue, and quelling the urge to be forever fraught with malice inescapable. yet, the encroaching sunset throttles me with a strange truth: as dire as it seems, as desolate as it appears; at least we know that the rains are falling. this revelation came to me because, as the hills blurred past my passenger window (the same hills that blurred past the same window time & time again), I noticed that those very same hills appeared, suddenly to me, as if they had been braided together. like the hair of a slumbering beauty, awaiting the kiss of her savior, awakening her into a vitality laden with the promise that only a sunrise could fulfill.
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