August 20 Murdock

THE SLATS ON SOME OF THESE HOUSES are peeling where it used to be smooth and bright. When I get my route I'll see rich houses and poor houses. I'll walk right up to the door and surmise what takes place inside, peek in the mail slot and see how much I can guess from the shine on the floor. People are entombed in houses all over America and in villages and cities all over the world. It's a pleasure to wait for the end to come like you might wait for a mailman. As long as there are sunsets on Ashby Ave. and new clothes every now and then, I wonder if it'll ever get boring although I must admit as a kid I expected a little more variety.

The man at the post office told me it sometimes takes months. But there wasn't a hint of prejudice in his tone of voice, just weary resignation: hard times and a slow but reliable system. I'm grateful to be grateful for what I have. Guys like Regie seem locked up in prison the way they wring their hands and walk around inside their mind. Why cry about getting out of this dead town, this has-been for the hippies, when it's no better elsewhere? For some, running is the means of exhilaration. But running you don't see the sunset. And you wear out your threads.



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