We sat outside while the smell of patchouli manifested throughout the interior.
Cigarette smoke snaked around our shapes as Van Morrison managed to move about our inner most thoughts.
Not a word was spoke.
We stood mesmerized by interstellar happenings and the daily bullshit that managed to keep us involved and intertwined.
Until you-Like a junky-managed to make sense of the inconsistencies of my slurred speech and helped while I fumbled to find words that met your intellect.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 