The old man knew something was amiss. He'd had a nice run. He didn't feel that badly. He was seventy-six. He didn't ever really feel well anymore. Life was a process of diminishing expectations. He could still make it out to the mailbox and back. He could cut grass if it wasn't too hot. Sure, …
Nightrider's Lament
"Why do they [write] for their money? Why do they [work] for short pay? They ain't getting nowhere and they're losing their share. They must have gone crazy back there." — Michael Burton (paraphrased)
