...You're all wrapped up in mystery/ So wild so free and far from me/ You're all I want, my fantasy....
The words 'special females here now' ricochet inside my skull without benefit of punctuation or context. I must have read a sign that registered just after I drove past it, and I wonder: crab house or strip joint? The neighborhood I'm in, it could be either one.
As the sky goes from blood-orange to mango to melon, fades from peach to lemon, the air cools. I turn on the heat to warm my feet, but do not pull up my top. Time enough for that when lemon pales to biscuit and smoke deepens to full dark.
It is past four in the morning when I hear the grumbling of distant thunder, only now realizing why I am still awake.
CrushWorld Irregular Featurette Wednesday Linkage: If you've missed 'em, here they are.
For the three or four of you who haven't heard: Rock Star Discovers Unique Family Closeness.
And, speaking of cremains, ashes of the former James Doohan, formerly Scotty on the Starship Enterprise, are about to be blasted into space.
While we're at it, that thirty-year old five-year mission? New 'original' episodes.
(This by way of the Artist's Statement of today's The Pain-When Will It End?, by that fabulous Mr. Kreider, a link especially for meeeee, because Tim loves me.)
Hey, shut up. It's MY fantasy world. Yes, that's you I'm telling to shut up, Mr. De-Bunker of All My Illusions, yes, YOU, Mr. Political Animal, writing this week about weather reports. Well, it WAS a particularly newsless week. Even Primarily Decorative noticed that. All the headlines were Congress Promises To Bring Troops Home, Bush Vows To Fight Congress, and the occasional Hundreds Die In... (fill in the blank). By the way, I recognize that final quote.
She's news, all right. I'm no Hilary-basher, but can't resist leaving you with this scary image.
(Photograph; Def Leppard)