When we were Kings.

uprooted and joyous, white dashes and solid yellows, a highway a home, a kick drum for a pulse, past lives seem like better days, well equipped to misbehave, things became and would later become, no questions or indecision, we left it all to chance and it worked out perfectly.

Each state a new moon, each sun a different shade of yellow, I could feel the earths pulse before dawn, and in those moments of darkness, insanity would strike only to create clarity.

Black sheep, stomping feet, swinging fists, colossus in bloom, and the smell of that old conversion van, absorbing the smell of sweat and the aching to live life less a mess.

A tall tale or big fish, each story seemingly taking its own breaths, how eerily familiar the hum and whistle of feedback becomes.

We got older, grew further, and knew that "Things Fall Apart."

And even when it was over, it lived on, assuming new forms.

It was perfect.

perfect.

per.