Early morning quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator, occasional protesting of radiator pipes. And the constant white noise of the laptop, barely heard, forgiven like the snoring of a lover.
Him and I, discussing in the lamplight where we’ll go today, what we’ll make up in our minds and make it real. Thinking time. Let the mind go where it would in dreams if not so weary to shut out action movies of the sleeping brain. That’s okay; we can color Willie young and virile, and the horses fast and bold. And best of all, border-borders don’t exist. And we can ride to Spain instead of Mexico, and I can wear a purple and red serape.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Very nice. You could easily make a poem out of this, I think.
Thank you, Michael. Willie does inspire me!