(no subject)
It's funny--they call it a desert island. But it's lush and green and vivid, even when it's deadly, a wet and fecund deathplace.
This is not a desert island; this is a desert. It's dry and it's desolate. It makes a man hard--and a little lonely.
There's a piece of wood so old and dry that it could be a stone, and a campfire red and low.
There's a shadow half-reclining, the shape of a guitar in his hands; almost the shape of a woman. But it's not a woman; there aren't any women here. He's playing something that doesn't match the world or the voice, the rasping voice of a lonesome cowboy.
(He's not a cowboy.)
"And I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more, just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door--"
Come a little closer.
This is not a desert island; this is a desert. It's dry and it's desolate. It makes a man hard--and a little lonely.
There's a piece of wood so old and dry that it could be a stone, and a campfire red and low.
There's a shadow half-reclining, the shape of a guitar in his hands; almost the shape of a woman. But it's not a woman; there aren't any women here. He's playing something that doesn't match the world or the voice, the rasping voice of a lonesome cowboy.
(He's not a cowboy.)
"And I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more, just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door--"
Come a little closer.