Somewhere out there they are chasing him down. They are running him to ground. The last Great Free American Man, his clothing torn by brush and bramble; his back bent close to the ground, moving quickly, quietly, a harried crouch over rough terrain. He can hear the dogs, their…
Wherein your author appreciates Youth and holds a candle for Rock N' Roll
Wherein brevity substitutes for depth
Wherein your author experiences nausea of the French variety
Mandarins in the post-truth era
Wherein Eazy-E provides clarity in these murky times
Ode to an Irishman
On that most common art
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Degrees of Overlap