‘Morning, folks. The road has become a substitute for my living room and office recently, and sometimes, a writing pad. Endless em dashes flit by, white. Thoughts tumble out and blur, sometimes in a familiar route of unchanging concrete, others as a vignette by a creek, a farmhouse with a porch light as the summer dusk settles in, and then whoosh, gone.
THEY’RE BACK, BABY