4:17 am… Missing Anda… Making coffee, working on the heroin book. Listening to voodoo chicken, thinking about my kids, my grandmother, my youth, my old age, my death. Making coffee, gazing out the window, I see the streetlamp glimmering off the shotgun houses, little toy village sagging from time.
An old man staggers down the sidewalk as youth sails past with such ease. Blues songs roll out through the windows in perfect time with floating curtains which flutter in the breeze – across the seas, on bended knees, the song whispers through the trees, what it is to be truly free…
Good morning!
Already you are writing your own Blues