I am the Lonesome Cowboy, forever moving, footloose and fancy-full, never still, always stirring, slow to slow or come to rest. Will you be my friend? I need some cash.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting quietly, picking though pebbles, searching for the perfect one, but aren't they all?
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sleeping alone under the stars, wrapped in my rain slicker, trusty six-shooter right here beside me, in case my sock puppet Ed tries any more funny stuff.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Chicken Pot Pie is my nickname. My mother assigned it to me that one day. That one day she chased me with a knife in one hand and a fork in t'other, intent on converting me. Into dinner, as I suppose. I have not often seen my mother since. Since so deeply disappointing her by running fast, away from her idea of what I might amount to if I did just but slow my pace a bit. Perhaps I should look in on her one day. I shall give it thought.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. You may know me by another name, or might, if I had one, and perhaps I did, once, when times were different, and the days were shorter, and so often louder.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tootling my tiny tooty-flute, humming away at the sky, and the stars, and whatever else my fancy may dictate.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@gmail.com
Me? I never learned how not to learn.
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
