Extra Dry with a Splice of Lime

February 11, 2003

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Sanctioned here, away from peers, I trace newly developed lines on my face and, once again, try to predict the future. What a way to spend the day, cooped up in a one room apartment at bay. What a way to spend the night, closed up in a gated community in sight. Lovely spans of memory stretch lengthwise across my mind reaching crevices I can only conjure up in twilight dreams. Through the slits on a darkening canvas I retrace footprints left behind knowing of my arrival, but as I have been here before, I disregard the inaccessible door, and make my way around back where the campfire is already set. I take my seat and make note of the faces I recognize, and then drift away into the ceremonial display of pictures set forth into motion and ageless characters animating our remaining space. It is here that I’ve been, away from smoke stacks and broken racks but rather sculpting hands and fertile lands occupied my view.

Greetings from the ancient bottle where time passes slow and the morning creeps in much too fast. I am abusing my rite of passage and prolonging my fading youth. I have come to a line I refuse to cross.

Author: Lindsay Niemann

Writer | Graphic Artist