Thanks for the input, man! Really appreciate it!
Your candor is admirable. Truly. As always.
My hat off to Copey. I bet you he's really proud now, wherever he is, knowing that his "lady" is taken care of by his best buddy's son. My regards to him, by the way, it's always good to hear that you youngsters ("The Olden Souls") are into squeaking hogs and rolling cogs. And to be honest, I feel a bit envious of your best buddy. Old Harleys are a treat, especially pans and knuckles. But over here, in Sweden, they're next to impossible to get your hands on. Rare, and too fucking expensive! And for a washed-out dude like me, on sick leave, more or less struggling each day to stay free and not peak, they're not even in the same universe as I, so to speak.
The lady I run with today I met a couple of years ago (she didn't ask for much, just some love and affection, a good meal now and then, something good to drink, and a man that didn't betray her, didn't fuck her up, didn't sway in his own peculiar way to keep his fucking shit together, all the good things going on, in life, in dreams, on the road), when the outlook on things were a lot clearer, and a lot less complicated. A 2008 Dyna. Chopped-up and stoned (on mackerel) to fulfill my need for a different kind of speed. I'm about to give her up though, if I can get the dough I think she's worth (that is to say, what she needs to get on with things without me), so yeah, that's that. A fucking bummer. Life isn't what it used to be, economically.
I `%%^\%%%%.::V2:: `\.
.*//*. 1984 }}} )) .\°^°*.
"*oo*" \_ "*ooo*"
Get your best buddy in here, man. He'll translate the following for you:
I'm an Evo Man. Always been, and'll always be. The blockheads of 1984-99 are my thing. But of course, a "big bored" Pan, a 1965 Electra-Glide on progesterone (98ci), I would cherish, for sure, 'cause that's the magnificent year I was born. My long lost love was a 1984 FXST Softail. The first of the first. The machine that "saved" Harley-Davidson from falling into oblivion (the Japanese competition at the time was killing off the shovels, something you probably know already, as the saying went "ancient tech = too much hassle and roadside mech"). She and I had a good run, from 2015-20. A "chop-chop" beautiful gift of God, Lady Godiva (anyone who looked upon her, without my consent, was struck blind by her naked beauty), that kept on purring even though I sometimes didn't treat her that well, you know, keeping her out of the rain, the mud, the fucking stain rebounds on Bud (yeah, I've had a few of those over the years, so I know where you're at). Had to let her go, eventually. Got sick. Depression. Pains me still, to this day.
I know how old I am, but my subconscious don't know. 27 is what I feel like I am most the time. Some days I feel like I'm 127. – Tom Fugle
Walking is good. I do that a lot. It clears my mind and invigorates my body.
I get the anxiety, the acid aftermath, for sure, when it comes to transportation and fossil-fuel driven wrath, not everybody is into the "uncontrollable" things, the "Beam me up, Scotty" sort of events. I'm a "control freak" myself, strangely enough, but with one big exception – motorsickles! I don't really know why, I'm just into it, sort of "made for it". Perhaps it's a reminder of the horseback riding days I used to enjoy, for a short while, up in the mountains of Sierra Tarahumara, in Mexico, in my youth. I was happy then, fulfilled, truly fucking tazed by life, slowly and wholly embraced by its greatest strife – the be free (in the wild), and sometimes I think it's that feeling, that awe, I'm always looking for when I'm out riding my Harley. She is my "steel" horse and she will always follow me, whenever and wherever I need to go.
I'll tell you one thing, man, I used to hang a lot on the TOR network, back in the day when it was in its infancy, when the dime was tossed between pedophile hunters and good old "get that fucking porn site down" hackers, and not, like today, between evil-minded crime lords (that includes the so called Intelligence Community) and Harvey Weinstein hords of child and women abuse fuckers. That was my CLI, the only way for me to be, in the world of wide webs and festering blebs.
Sorry, I get riled up sometimes, still. Angry, like you wouldn't believe. But it's fine. All good. For now. Desillusion is a bliss at The Midnight, you don't really have to take any piss from anybody or anything, or get into any kind of kid fight over this or that toy, because the Boy is now a Man, and he's so full of shit (good shit), that it wouldn't be fair to give him any kind of evil stare – the simple truth is that he's just a free wheeling sleuth that doesn't have to quit! Ever!
Too Fast For Blog – you're the fucking dude of this skewed Nightfall City backlog!
Now, I need a coffee, black, and a smoke… I'm all out of words.