Wash Out

A washout. Overexposed wasteland blues.

Where days drop like flies and the months march by.

I got rolls of film in my pocket and i’ll expose the lot.

And dip into my savings for the scans.

Summers here, Spring is but a turn in the winds. And bindies in my heel.

This time of year is crap. All heat and sea-spray. Though the light starts to linger a bit longer.

So you gotta carpe diem and all that comes with it.

Something in me feels that day siezin’ ain’t what it was once for me. A trip to the beach and a beer in the shade mightn’t be what some might think of as grabbing life by the throat.

Maybe.

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