Me: The Night Writer, John Stewart; 50 years old and smart enough to have married my trophy wife first.
I know you're lonely for words I ain't spoken...
Late Sunday evening I packed my bag and got in my car to head to the company event that has been consuming my waking (and a few non-waking) hours for the past several weeks.
It was a warm summer evening, in the gathering twilight that I like best when it is still light but the sky is beginning to gray and the lights of the cars and houses really seem to pop. I swung out onto the almost deserted highway and flipped over from radio to CD and was rewarded with a couple of songs from Springsteen's Born to Run album.
The quality of light, the open road in front of me, a couple of anthems from my youth...it was as if a screen door slammed in my mind, a dress waved, and a vision danced across the porch as the radio played.
I put the pedal down and off I screamed into the night.
It was a warm summer evening, in the gathering twilight that I like best when it is still light but the sky is beginning to gray and the lights of the cars and houses really seem to pop. I swung out onto the almost deserted highway and flipped over from radio to CD and was rewarded with a couple of songs from Springsteen's Born to Run album.
The quality of light, the open road in front of me, a couple of anthems from my youth...it was as if a screen door slammed in my mind, a dress waved, and a vision danced across the porch as the radio played.
I put the pedal down and off I screamed into the night.