The lefts were on fire and so were the rights and quick was the coming arrival of night. The next day did blossom much like that before and still were no publishers lined at his door and still was no wife laid there with him inside yet strong were the walls of his small-nurtured pride. He'd gone out and done it and ridden that surf and proven to none but his own self his worth and surfed not in front of where people could see but where there was just about, oh, nobody. Now he must make payments for bike and for rent and see that his dollars are consciously spent not on bull frivolities or worthless junk or on things to lug in a big steamer trunk but on things that stay with him up in his mind – his need to own trinkets he has left behind. With strong waves approaching tomorrow he'll drive to Bingin to test if his wits are alive and ready for shredding this big-boy boss swell or if he should just stay at peaks he knows well. But time will reveal what the Fates know by now: there's some who write poems some who work a plow but each man his pathway must follow anon and mind his own business out under the sun.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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