If one were to put their ear to his head they would hear the din of Cheers-chums tinkling wineglasses and crushed ice scratching. Beer resolves everything with him. Excuse me, my good man. She attested to mocking children in grade school who toted everything about in backpacks. As one who, himself, experienced the pain of backpack apartheid, I have a dream that backpackinians and non-backpackinians can love and live in peace.
Today is such a day.
Seven a.m., the sans-sun hour. The frost-fingers of winter have arrested sun and sky. Me, for instance. Six miles to the library, legs light as a wind-kicked kite. Six miles back, million mile marathon-murder on calf and thigh.