(Deleting duplicate posts, had to re-post; the date may or may not have changed, but the post remains virtually the same) Sunday,11/28: Riding home, Saturday night, in the afterglow of a post-Thanksgiving lunch-and-afternoon with relatives, more laidback than expected. Top the hill, tilt toward the welcome, familiar sight: well-developed truckstop, big motel, a couple of shops. In the dark, mostly, but what's visible, even to the traveler who's never been here before, is a warm garland of lights, all around the intersection down there.
Swerve into the left lane, no matter what's coming around its bend, because of having just seen a walker on the right, in the headlight's furtherest reach. Tall narrow forward-tilting flat back of a short canvassy jacket, seeming to erase the sight of itself. Wheeling away from/alongside him, dimness registers slightly spikey Beatle-y bowl hair, head still tilting slightly, but unbowed.
He's still walking the same pace, in the music of his drama, his sulk, his sub-star-so-far trek. In the music of screeching brakes, screaming curses, shooting middle fingers, craning necks, jangling nerves, already slamming memories. Last night, and life goes on, with or without the walker. Another lost classic.