For everyone who put his sole on the asphalt and stuck out a thumb not knowing who would stop or where they would go, for everyone who's heard a frantic horn player blow a thousand notes in a single breath, for all the desolate angels who stretched out the endless road, cranking the AM skip past the border of Benzedrine and Tokay, the tar strips beneath the tires drumming a ceaseless 2-4 when all the world is stuck on 1-3...
..this entry is for you.
Editor's Note: I'm off to the beach with The Bride, leaving you kids alone to amuse yourselves. The owner of this typewriter and the weekend's winners will be announced Tuesday, along with a new man/machine match-up. Play nice.
Oh, and 1200 words today.