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



The Pace of the Few...

I like the concept of being trapped alone with a small group of people in a post-apocalyptic situation maybe.

We'd analyze our resources, talk of what if's, and stay up late smoking cigarette butts while developing courses of action to get to where "others" may be.

I would try to assume a leadership role and attempt to direct everyone in the proper protocol involved in boarding up windows, barricading doors, and listening for warnings brought on from the crickets ceasing their chirps.
"I'll make some coffee." a woman would announce.

"That would be great, and that'd certainly promote some ease." a gentle, elderly man would reply.

"What'da think are chances are?" Someone would ask.

We'd sit and listen to radio updates from a far off station as each to size-up each other: man in opposition to man, woman in attempt to evaluate a mate.

Making money would not drive purpose.
Purpose would be defined as building relationships, developing principles, starting over.

"Hey, good news, I found a pistol in the drawer upstairs!" A young man would announce bursting into the kitchen where everyone sat.

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