Where the rubber meets the road for the modern Renaissance man is somewhere between arrogance and rust, somewhere in the mist of the dust of ancestors and geniuses lost. She said it while wiping out a glass lamenting the geniuses lost in south America to slavery the untold losses that are never counted. I really liked her way of looking at things I remember how she laughed wildly talking about Marx and I regretted I hadn't yet read him enough to weigh in. I think she was a survivalist. She's waiting for the world to end. Meanwhile a man I know seems like he's waiting for the world to fall at his feet.
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Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring...
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"Well...that was dramatic." I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere and the moths in her hair like ...