you can't force comedy
somewhere past lost creek, but a bit short of nutter fort, a couple of friends traversed I-79. their caffeine fueled, kerouac infused journey felt less like a relocation than an epic, for somehow, in the midst of this dissonance, dreams that had died bled onto sheets of new desire. as a result, neither new birth nor death seemed remote.
as they passed nutter fort two roads diverged, two pills were offered, two doors stood open. i could clarify the options and speak of conclusions foregone and forgotten, but wonder whether it would matter. the roads diverged and the stories unraveled, producing some episodes that were manic and others that were morose. so the story went and so it goes.
my only hope, indeed my half-hearted prayer, is that the stories unravel to the beat of burroughs and the storyteller is indeed sympathetic.