[Rib Nite 3]
Ever woke up from a big old sleep and wondered, wondered why your ribs are a-blowing in the breeze? Ever woke up on a vee dubya backseat? On a backseat with a head like a plug of Camembert cheese? Well, forgive me, please, but you ain’t ever woke up.
He wondered why he hadn’t reached out sooner. No man is an island. He made soothing and strange music in the attic of the house on the cliff side. He’d holed up some several forevers ago. Needed a break he told the mirror. Needed a break from himself. The westerlies wizened Penn Beacon on the far side of the window. The weather pushed right up against the glass. The framed sky rolled trophy clouds beneath which waves slid this way, slid that. Blue mould grew in the teacup, but no more did he see the saucer. He painted. He painted to remember. Painted the craft over the headland from memory. The UFO in the offing. He kept binoculars within reach, kept a camera ready. He made sketches – as if those pencil marks would herald the disc’s return.