In California it's been a balmy 85 degrees (F), and our winter travels have already been spent on family in the middle of the country. The ride down I-40 has become a familiar path of shockingly barren and beautiful landscape.
Peppered by military bases, cloud factories, and a dozen billboards in a row glorifying and pleading at once that you visit another authentic trading post. You, the blood source of a handful of people scrambling to get by in a parched environment that their own ancestors had mastered living off of until the advent of land thievery and installation of systems.
It is even sadder to see the ghost-faced signs, ten in a row of blank expression mourning an establishment that collapsed on its shaky foundation, accented with ravens for quotation marks.
...The desert is dying for business. And I mean dying.
Peppered by military bases, cloud factories, and a dozen billboards in a row glorifying and pleading at once that you visit another authentic trading post. You, the blood source of a handful of people scrambling to get by in a parched environment that their own ancestors had mastered living off of until the advent of land thievery and installation of systems.
It is even sadder to see the ghost-faced signs, ten in a row of blank expression mourning an establishment that collapsed on its shaky foundation, accented with ravens for quotation marks.
...The desert is dying for business. And I mean dying.
... as to your comment over on my bloggy thing, I have to say that the one thing I've learned since self-obsessing myself with writing is that ART IS HARD. For all my joy in creating things, actually going out and setting it down to paper or screen or whatever is hard. It's harder than just about anything in the world.
I wish I realized it when I was younger. Perhaps, I could have used that realization to devote myself harder towards actually perfecting my drawing skills. Instead I gave up because I didn't think I had any skill for it. When it was really just really hard.
Hindsight and all that.