Youthful Folly

So we tired of the smell of California, me and the girl who painted my sandals and face.  We followed a footpath of sand and wood through a crescent canyon of rippling stone and sun-crystal, until we came to the secret passage in the home of her great-grandparents.  All the while we recited poems and tasted dried apricots, and those songs from the 1950’s echoed in our hearing, seeming to inform us from the opposite end of a linear funnel.  We dove into each other and held our breath until we splashed our way back out again.  We smoked hashish and blew expanding rings, returning to stack their gray hoops around us where we sat with legs folded beneath us, hands listening for the earth’s vibration.  We became water bearers, shape benders, feather riders, submitting to cerebral saturation.  We had no thoughts of how to get ahead in life.  To us, getting ahead meant falling behind, turning down the dark alley.  We honored simplicity and relished autonomy, woefully moonstruck in our youthful folly.

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