In twilight shine, behind the moon clouds and the mountain high, the sun sends a scent of fresh rose to peek over the hill “all is clear” awake. This morning the mountain made love to the sky, as the world spins with blue soaking heavens high, and while I stop to wipe my tears, the birds they laugh at my useless fears. But for now let the crisp envelope me.
And out of my coat pockets they fell. Four colorfully adorned, crisply illustrated packs of NFL trading cards: The fabulous Fleer Ultra, the uniquely hologram-cornered Upper Deck, the timeless Topps, and last but not least, what collector could forget the generic looking Pro Set? All the cards were in the new-age crinkly wrappers, the style of the late 80s, early 90s, just waiting to be painstakingly opened and their contents extricated with the yanking lull of gentle fingers.
Sing to me Seattle in downfalls of operatic rain, Cali from California settles the sunsets down along her sunshine shore without any of your pain. But you’re in love with your rain face, you’re in love with paradise flowers, and if birds of paradise could fly along with them you and I would reside under the Seattle’s sky. Then by morning we would pour out our hearts and feelings on the sand of some Seattle beach, along with raindrops and blues waiting for the Seattle sun to breach. So sing to me Seattle in a wet and sorrowful tune, as if no one else could or would ever hope to fall in love with you.
He sat on the hard cold transit bench with the entire dirt of the week clinging so close to him it appeared to be a best friend. The brown crinkled bag half torn and half empty from a pint of discount whiskey he clutched in his one big paw like his savior; quizzically the whiskey he pondered was this bottle a reflection of the last half of his life, was the bottle half full or half empty, would there be other bottles or was this the final one. He decided to find out and with one gigantic swig he drank to his life and felt the warm stream settle into his gullet and confirm he was still alive.
Tyler sat across from the granite-crowned bar top, sipping Sprite from a paper cup and poking at the screen on his phone. His bright white chef coat was yet to be blazoned with a single marinara stain. The gleaming blades of his machine sharpened knife set rested next to his arm on the lacquered table, and on top of that, waited his folded kitchen beanie, ready to get its first shot at the hot world outside of its plastic wrapping. Tyler anticipated the arrival of the general manager, trying to relax in the plush bench of the booth. On the wall above his head full of pomade-smeared hair, was an autographed team photo of the local minor league baseball team.
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