We fling ourselves into the pickup truck’s bed; caked mud fractures from my sunburnt calf, reminding me of the early morning rain and mudslides out on the lawn. We lay supine, smoking cigarettes in our soured clothes, matted hair blows across our eyes, as the skyline flanks our peripheral, our minds race along as the truck rumbles through the city.
Eyes sting with wind, sweat, salt—Memories, subdued by dehydration, labors to catalog the day’s rewards. Earlier, our counter-culture collective huddled together through rain, played joyfully in the mud, ran amuck, danced around fires, spilled blood, bonded in the chaos of adolescence.
The carelessly tossed cigarette expells a rapture of illumination as it dances across the pavement.
My heart beats to the day’s rhythm. My temples pulsate—an auditory impregnation of my body has occurred.
Today the left of center gathered as a community; cults of sub-culture received without judgment wandered throughout themselves, strolling without care to the soundtrack of their attitude.
City light fades. We have no concept of time, only light and dark. Yet, today we loved and lived, each sense was touched, and all who shared common interests expressed a bounty of emotion.
Our senses now suspend, unknowing our subconscious’s feeble attempt to possess the piqued expressions of this day forever.
We ride along, staring into the night’s sky. Silent, we prepare to return to the isolation of our homes where only memories and Memorex will deliver us.