Sitting on a big oak tree. Yellow and green. At the age of nineteen. We've all been there. And perhaps aren't anymore. But that doesn't seem to matter or impact on the basic emotion. The feeling of being alive. It's certainly a long time in the other place. Lethe. The river of forgetfulness.
In the meantime there are worse places I might direct you than to Slow Pulp's Melodie. It's the stuff of uncertain Independent American dreaming.That will do for today. And tomorrow I imagine.
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