you made quite an impression on me old man. Something about the dichotomy of your mangled mechanical motion and the cobble stone streets of Portland -and every other city constructed with a bipedal complex- made about as much sense to me as a lilac shooting upwards through the parched desert earth. From the other side of the street I saw your ***** calloused hands grasping the wheels of your entrapment. Hands for horses crooked legs for reigns, your mind harbors the immutable knowledge that your wheeled prison can't be escaped. But then, for a moment, it happens: With a desire for movement unparalleled by even the most diligent of wayfarers you break free from the confines of immobility. you are a great steamboat disembarking from a familiar port, traversing the ***** rivers of black tar and cement, fires stoked by the thoughts of what was and is no more, drifting along to the tempo of a softly beating heart and the feel of a woman's touch.... it pounds and you listen and you and her are wrapped tightly under sheets of linen again, legs intertwined, arms embracing the undulating curvatures of a supple young body and she says she loves you and you say its requited and she says we can make it and you begin to run your clean youthful fingers through her hair and then boom, your ship runs aground and you once again become enslaved to your affliction. Upon the curb you sit old man, stagnant, face in your ***** hands thinking of where you've been and where you will never go.