Pennsylvania is pretty.
Pittsburgh on a bike.
blue blue eyes
My dad loves those windmills. Look close; bottom.
Sometimes it doesn’t matter what “they” tell you. You keep that foot to the floor. You keep that gas pedal down and you go. You drive in a town at rush hour and steal glances of the water surrounding you. You think of swimming in it. You think of letting the water sink into your pores. Boats are parked in their everyday stations, pockets. It seems so industrial to me. Like, I could go anywhere on that thing. Like, “that boat was in IRAQ yesterday.” Like I could do this every day if I had the money.
Like, maybe I don’t need the money at all. So long as I never lose that drive; hunger.