Three A.M. She reads about her dharma as it writes itself in the dark above the rows of nightlights. She believes in silence and the pictures that occur to her in dreams. She sees magic every day.
This man sees numbers hover around everything. He can pivot tables and become a mad man with numbers and what they mean. To know: he can also crack a joke in the offbeats of conversations. He reads strange books and sleeps hard.
There comes a time in a man's life when he remember's his childhood. Wendell doesn't. He believes in only now, says he represses very little, and rocks the open mic with lyrics minus f-bombs.
Dearest Hollywood: Most of the time you really suck, in a good way, and sometimes, in a bad way. Missouri, where I came from, still rocks on the smallest level, like the crumb of a cookie.
Sometimes you meet young women who believe everything they read (in Cosmopolitan magazine). Make-up applications, clothing styles, sex in bed styles, lipstick colors, gosh, they all help land a man, they say. More peppermint lip gloss with sticky aftertaste!
Twilight beckons her moon-shadowed hair. Cinnamon cheeks. She is a refined creature, with an ability to flick her tonsils shut to thrown down words before they come up!