I staggered into the graveyard with the sole intention of being found out, called out as a trespasser. Bellyful of Mickey's, headful of vice, earful of Skynyrd.
I fell asleep under a handsome tree for about forty-five minutes, and when I woke I had a difficult time deciding whether to spend the rest of my nocturne in the cemetery, or to trudge on to my best girl's warm arms. Life is all the more beautiful when faced with decisions like these.
Tom Waits has caused me to rediscover traits and habits I had long forgotten, like the patience to stare down drainpipes and listen to birdsongs at 5:52 am while ankle-deep in cold water.