Good Golly Miss Molly when your rocking and rolling trips through the grey matter at an alarming speed. I know that Trinity Sunday is indeed melting into the History books, gathering dust under each letter typed in confusion across the globe. Hip hop words gather in the storm as the further we stretch the longer the road to were ever our journey takes each pebble kicked.
Bells did not ring, words did not tumble, scuffed shoes through the giant cascade notes of music play in minds thimbles not caught, but distant in the looking glass which dangles on every breath we take, as all men die.