I was up late last night thinking, inspired by Poe's "Fly Away," the last song out of the speakers. Counting Crows came to mind, "August and Everything After." It used to be my favorite album; I loved the Midwestern flavor to it. I'd ride my go-kart down an abandonned logging road in Vermont until the trees fallen across the path were too big to go over, then leave the thing and walk. I'd come to a bunch of pastures, and sit in the grass, watching the sky, listening to "Omaha" and "Sullivan Street," reading one of Richard Bach's books about barnstorming in a rattle-trap Fleet or Detroit-Parks biplane, dreaming that I could hear the rumble of that radial engine overhead and wishing I were in Kansas or Nebraska or "the holy land of Indiana," where everything was flat and an antique biplane could land anywhere to hop rides.
That was when I was like, 16 or 17.
I wonder what that kid would think of me now, here in Seattle.
That was when I was like, 16 or 17.
I wonder what that kid would think of me now, here in Seattle.