We travelled through the trees and the coast in the rental vessel keeping the horse going with gasoline and the social lubricant of familiarity. I sat back, tiredsick in passenger seat. Small talk and private-pick nuances that creep up after four hours of awe and hobbies, deadpan, and tar cigarettes I bring down my oil-stained teeth. And I know it will end when the wheels stop. I know it. I’m well versed. I’ve progressed to responding unresponsively with less of the giddy tragic fluttery gut state you’ve left me in in the past. Let’s do some living after we die, my dear. Let’s do some living after we die.