One time, between jobs I worked at Starbucks. Actually, working would be overstating things. I’ve never actually had a cup of coffee (truly) so I’d never actually been in a Starbucks, but I’d heard that it was where slackers and caffeine groupies and people on the dole often gather to poach free Wi-Fi, posture as if conducting real business and discuss the metaphysical merits of the scone, so one day I channeled my inner hipster and went there.
People live either a garage-door-open or a garage-door-closed existence. One allows the circulation of air and the possibilities that can arrive on the wind, the other, I suppose, gives the blessing of solitude and the illusion of privacy. Those that choose closed must ultimately face the demons within, those that pick open must deal with whatever wanders in.
A young brave rested on one knee at the edge of a wide, powerful stream on the northern plains of America’s glorious past. This was his land, the land of his forefathers, yet he still twitched with anticipation, all senses firing … the plains were alive, dangerous, life there was as fragile as the shell of a robin’s egg.