Carmichael, east of Warsaw, found his way down the flow of Mississippi. Lately, his thoughts were vague but ever so forthcoming that visions of Antonio sang through his mind.
“Its as if it were spring'”
Such were the tendencies of life in the stream. A southerner’s aborigine myth crept crawlingly through his head as he spied with his eye on the banks of the ditch a peat and moss type if infantile man wrestling magic and deliverance from evil so he may buy a morning loaf at the baker’s bastard children’s house.
Not surprisingly, the last thing in the works that anyone would need, the girl anyone could beat and her good old god gold mold of old was triggering a tidal wave as she attracted mammals and insects of all sorts, goddess moon crossing the clouds with a fullness of altitude and then…
There again was the fir tree, derooted and decaying in metal coffin dumpster. It was Carmichael’s final thought as he drowned and sank to the bottom of the Mississippi.