Long drives through the forests outside Santa Cruz. Abandoned vine trellises strangling the last dead tendrils of long-harvested hops. A radio playing nothing but the static of the end of the line. Overgrown concrete giving way to cascades of arboreal breeze. Red-become-green of leaves seared into beauty.. A town in a valley, surrounded by pastoralism, sealed in a bubble. Ivory towers at every corner. Quaintness made elite. Or the elite made quaint.
11:20 a.m. - 2018-10-22
Recent entries:
Falling Salmon - 2018-10-29
Nearly Midnight Musing - 2018-10-29
Wrung Tongue - 2018-10-29
Freed Men - 2018-10-22
Chapter Climax - 2018-10-22
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