While I sit here sounding, I gaze
these marshlands away. Some men
with a horse once tried plowing
wet fields. The whole world around
them sunk. Archie's sheds of junk
were here, and behind that stretched
the billion acres of the Great Swamp
itself. We drove through it all to
Morristown. Morris Magneto, in
fact - a small motorcycle shop of
sorts, which specialized in its own
magnetos. Replace your charging
system with a total-loss one instead.
This all reads like a story in prose,
but by four o'clock we were all
wise-drunk. There were no cops
around, and that day was ours.
Motorcycles and a gun and fire.
Some girl from that sleazeball bar
said to me, 'You live here your whole
entire life?' I stammered back, trying
to pretend, 'Well, no, not yet.'