Burning

That old typewriter - the one that Papa kept forever on the desk in front of the window that faced the giant magnolia tree - was resurrected only to be covered in worn-several-times-and-not-to-be-washed-anytime-soon college t-shirts. You know the ones - the vintage Ramones ringer - the same one now pictured on Jennifer Garner with its sleeves fashionably cut-off in the latest issue of Star or US Weekly. If he knows that he will never wear his again. Back to the times. High Times, collected, the one with HST's journalistic contributions. Gonzo papers, a first edition. Excitement, only for a moment, then it's back to the realistic plans. The LSAT, part-time jobs while waiting to pursue real fortunes. The goddam discount at Sport's Authority. Wanting to get back to the South and defending the need to leave the South. Defending the need to not follow. Failing. Converting. "You can burn if you want to." I don't. He doesn't. We don't. Too much to think about now.