Wrestling season will never come.
The October leaves have lost their color.
The tickle well is full.
The smell of camp fire becomes a retching stench.
Joy dies in the Autumn damp.
[read more]Wrestling season will never come.
The October leaves have lost their color.
The tickle well is full.
The smell of camp fire becomes a retching stench.
Joy dies in the Autumn damp.
[read more]AUGUST, 1995
Steve and I were a little drunk and the late morning, Hawaiian sun was promising fierce judgment. Kalakaua Avenue was lightly trodden for a Tuesday morning, mostly Japanese tourists, since it was cheaper for them to fly to Hawaii for events like weddings and parties than it was to host them in Japan, because of the price of real estate apparently. [read more]
