It was a Neil Young/Bukowski kind of night. A night where she cooked and I read old Bukowski aloud, sipping cold beer and laughing. Music about rivers, rainbows and cowgirls in the sand shot through the evening, ricocheting from wall to wall, marrow to mind.
It was the kind of night where humans don't let you down and the taunting totality of the past carries cadence and finally fits to rythyms.
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