Benzodiazepine Blots — Hair Shirt Chronicles

Arrhythmic sighs from the shuffle of ice against the shore, on that first March day to hit 60 and all the garbage underneath sits there stupefied and bare, like a drunk who didn’t make it to bed or out of his clothes waking on the floor to a crippling morning hangover. Nature being more playful than purposeful, the random dance of plastic in the ring of open space beneath a canopy of four or five Doug fir.