In the somewhere between the morning downpour and the chilly dusk, the treeline and the surf, the heat is tempered by a cool breeze. It’s close, but far away –far from the crowd, anyways.
Al Green and Nina Simone, Van Morrison and Roxy Music are tickling the inside of my ear, the digital transmission magically transformed by a mono earbud -a bit vintage hardware off a Super 8mm sound movie camera- into the warm analogue of a transistor radio from my youth.
Lying low, riding high, for a long little while.
For Johnny Drift.