Hardened shell of once was. Broken dreams. Broken parts.

He had just left the supermarket driving home in his car. Carefree Saturday afternoon, anxious to get home and start drinking. Cooking. Cool outside, windows cracked, music frames the vibe as the little miss would say. And those mysterious and undecided clouds. Still uncertain how to process the changes. Suspiciously Springlike. No matter. High on nostalgic reflection and embellished good times that may be more of a mirage?.

So blissfully ignorant to the freedoms before us. A chosen a life of debaucherous hospitality. Daily light proposed endless possibilities while nocturnal skies unveiled unknown introductions. The Big Chill of both familiar and new. The soundtrack framing libidinous adventure.

But the warmth of gummied earth tone reveries could not silence the reality of broken parts and aged, worn engines.

The conscience altered miles –  often overlooked have now returned. Requesting attention and penance. No longer a reminder. No longer a choice.

As Schlumpy angrily proclaimed, “The pussy ain’t free!” Regardless – no longer relevant. You ain’t either, he acknowledges.

What’s working? What’s not? Count your blessings. And count your days.

But still. Nostalgic reflections. Earth tone reveries.

He smiles. Briefly. Unknowingly, he had it all. When all was possible.