At the County Line the reception is shit and the bottles are always dusty. People drive by too fast and the smoke from my cigarette triggers memories -- it emerges from my car as I climb in, brandy bound.
Another alcoholic memoir fills the void of my human experience.
It all feels like a 1950s cinematic universe, but I never know the plot and it’s always thickening with me unaware of my own expansions.
Maybe there were none after all and this was just another dirt parking lot. I’d pull out of in my 2003 Chevy Impala and I'd cry to some 80’s alternative rock, feeling as though I was finally on the right path, heading towards a brighter future. Another glimpse I’d get.
I wonder if nostalgia can kill a person.
Ain’t looking for nothing but a good time and it don’t get better than this.
There’s this one spot on the way home from the county line right before driving on my favorite Road in Statesboro where I go through a stoplight and if you hit it just right you’ll go over this bump fast enough that your stomach will drop and it thrills me with joy every time.
It’s not enough to hurt my car but it’s enough to get flyin'
About the Creator
Veronica
I am the moss silken on watered stones, rooted deep in rich soil. Earthen creature, I am the night sky -starry and strayed from the forgotten path of poets - I am, the chatter from the iron rails rattling as the train carries itself home.
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