I am the Lonesome Cowboy, nameless by choice, friendless by habit, solitary by nature, stinky for lack of bathwater. But who then — who — can remain perfect at all times in all situations? Few. True, a coyote or two does mind me, and objects, but only few, only but one or two.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tall and gaunt, casting a long shadow, and I wear spurs to bed, every night, in case there may be late trouble a-brewing.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tootling my tooty flute, tapping my toes, taking time off to enjoy the life tension-free, among wild grasses and herbs of the far-distant lonely plains, my home for so many long years now.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting under the starry night's dome, waiting for a sign of life to come and visit.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. You do not know me, for I am an illusion cast upon the projection screen of another's dreams. In fact, you will never even know that I exist, and should I come calling one evening, hoping to borrow a cup of lard, a thimble of thumb-tacks, a bag of bilge water, you will still not know me, but you will have what I need, even if you do not have what I ask for, because you are each and every thing that I am not, except lonesome. True? So, fine.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Today is the last day of the first part of my life, and the first day of the other part of my life, but given a chance to choose, I would say let me live backwards in time if you will, please, for I already know whatever I have done wrong and what might be attempted to ameliorate it, if I can but reverse it all.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff+snorp@gmail.com
Me? Weaving. Still weaving. (Hey — I'm a weavil.)
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction
definitions: outdoor terms
fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves
boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks
snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity
last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer
noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
