A conundrum of contradictions, a non-zombie traveling companionless within myself, I hope. A mixture of Sheriff Woody and Bill Clinton I represent something. I am BOB, spelled both B.O.B forwards and backwards. A member of the “Spooky Kids”, my face is painted capitalist white and I am pretending to blend.
So here I am awake and there you are asleep still seven hours in the past trailing behind rotations.
Pinch, pull, smooth and fold, then put slain cranes back where they belong. That’s all I really seem to remember of the earlier days. I think I could have lived somewhere within that old jean jacket of yours in those first days, forever frozen in sliver and gold.