THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



Unrest and Abundance...

My Dearest Gretchen,

It is with the greatest substance and utmost unassuming nature I lay down my inhabitations and surrender myself to the cause of this most pleasant of all discourse.

How long has passed since I most recently viewed you? - Possibly a year or perhaps longer? Of course not to such an extent but it does seem as much does it not? Frankly I must offer my admittance, Gretchen, I wrestle with your image nightly; so much so that I discover myself pausing in motionless reflection until I sink with wistfulness and careen into dire melancholy.

Why, just last night I awoke to a rhythm of late summer rain caressing the rooftop shingles of the old house. It swept and hushed and elegantly stalled en mass in the eavement rain gutter while navigating its course enroute to the ground via the down-spout just outside our window. Upon listening for some time I finally resorted to subside and I spun my legs to the bed’s edge and onto the floor - an impressive chill to the bottoms of my feet. Taking heed so as not to commit to flight over any of my discarded clothing from the previous day I tip-toed across the room and knelt down before the window’s ledge in muted contemplation.

I opened the pane to its widest and draped my arms out and into the watery elements and I focused mightily upon your face and hands and smell and touch. Fragments of the late-night precipitation misted my brow and eyes and I knew all for certain, my beloved, that you had returned for this but just a moment to capture. Sheets of water poured onto the house’s side and staircased down the planks as you wafted through the concealed portions of my consideration.

Alas, it is quite droll, I shall acknowledge, but factual nonetheless.

Pray tell, how many a fortnight must elapse until we unite again dear Gretchen? Regard I your most sincere of all admirers and dwell in the moments we shared in eras passed.

Upon evening hours I rise
To sit before darkened window pane
Casting breathless, heartfelt sighs
In anticipation of your voice again.

Affectionately yours,

--C. Laurence Webb
(aka Abraham Ahmed)

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