Ghosts. Drifting down the highway, H3 as a lyrical backdrop, giggling at some lyrics, and one image, against a brilliant yellow-orange sunset, a single weathervane and windmill, like some kind of a tourist – postcard – whatever – western image. Only, for real.
Why guys don’t ask for directions?
Because when I gave in and bought can of potato chips, just to buy something and ask for directions in the night? No one at the store knew.
“I think, like, you go down this road until it’s almost out-of-town, and then, like, it should be there.”
Thanks for the hot tip. Don’t like us foreigners much, now do they?
Laeti edimus qui nos subigant!
(click to visit)
