PISS & MOAN
Updated: Jul 10, 2020
12 bass. 2 hours.
The wall of brambles guarding the 1/2-acre farm pond ate my lunch. But that’s how it goes when you play the game.
And here I am lamenting that I’m handcuffed during the week.
Whatever.
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I wake to the wilderness in her eyes and a futile wish for cool air from the ceiling fan. Morning coffee and a cigarette on the porch. Shafts of sun and smoke tendrils. The coffee still too hot to sip
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