No one goes away to come back to say goodbye. They all stopped doing that back in 69. There were big storms in 79 and then the land of the upside down mountains started producing sunsets for the turitas and we all ran like little kids on red sandy beaches eating ice cream. The balloon smoke factories with mile high chimneys overshadowed the little candy shops and grandma tailor machines worked the midnight to feed the soldier ships to Britannia to fight of the funny mustache guy. Paratroopers, parachuter's and para gliders are not all alike, but they all did die that day so the candy shops were closed and red paint were smeared on the doors around the city to chase away the carrion demons from stealing all those bereavement food.
Funny feelings surrounded the book club that day because all they book they read seemed to carry encrypted messages of the same future and the landlords chased them away for the very last time before the bar was razed to ground. Somewhere a few blocks away another gathering took place where monkey wranglers and buffalo racers joined in to cheer the latest astronaut who landed on the moon and then came back with buckets of moon rock for the Smithsonian exhibit. Fearing that the bald headed triads will destroy civilization we have mushroom cloud makers drop cherry bombs on far away lands and it all happened on some wet season where the mud stuck like concrete to the boots and the whole village were in a shade of gray. The napalm burned clothes and policy makers dined on a posh dinner to celebrate Ben or Mark or Toby on returning from the million dollar sail boat sailing adventure around the world.
We all know good times wont return.
[-] If only I can understand 'why' I write these...