wake up, rod

this will likely be edited again sometime in the future. the story keeps expanding, even when I don't want it to. how I really feel about you we were on our way, halfway to fucking Santa Fe, Óðr in the back slurping beer from a beer helmet, mead from a mead cap, cigarette ashes hitting blacktop like finger cymbals. you were a gun made of beef jerky and uppers. a Buick full of errata, mise en scène, some said the objects were more interesting than the dialogue. later, alone in Arizona, adjusting the seat of your pants, the cell signal dropped out. hailstones, bidden from nowhere, fell on the sand. your adam’s apple, caught mid-word, stuck against the skin of your neck.