Arkansas, Land of the Safari

Rumors have been circulating around this small, quaint town along the foothills of the Ozarks. These are rumors of strange and exotic creatures surrounding the nearby farmlands. I knew of one such creature, and I can verify its authenticity. It's called the Zonkey, and it dwells over in Kinsett. I was first exposed to this rare, romping creature of fantasy zooland a couple of months ago. It stood in mystical delight, in proud defiance of any beastly conformity, that one might think of when one thinks of Arkansas. I can vouchsafe the strangeness of this land; I have traveled myself into the heart of darkness, and returned. "Oh, the horror...the horror" I cry out.
It wasn't long after my first encounter with this beast, that Will and I, and his wife decided, as a matter of fact, today, that we should witness the resplendent Zonkey in the broad hours of daylight, and a few other bizarre animals. Will was just last night, bragging to me how he spotted an ostrich in a nearby cow pasture. I not believing him, (of course he didn't believe me when I told him about the Zonkey either), said that I would like to see this ostrich, and that surely he mistook an emu for an ostrich. This is a common mistake and could be forgiven. So it was planned for today that he, his wife, and I would journey via his car, on a safari in Arkansas.
However, a Zonkey and an ostrich were intriguing enough in themselves, there still was this one very strange rumor springing around inside my head to be sought after. I asked Will about this strange phenomenon, he flat-out denied its existence calling such an idea absurd. This folks is the rumor of a full-fledged elephant farm somewhere in the Ozarks. We searched for websites online, and sure enough there was one not more than an hour's drive outside of Searcy. So with our curiosity entirely enticed we set out north to see such strange circus animals.
We went by the outlaying lands not spotting a single ostrich, cows we passed, dogs we drove by, even turkeys we saw, but no ostrich. We finally made it to the designated spot of the elephant farm, but to our utter disappointment the gates were shut and locked and we couldn't spot a single grey hide or white tusk anywhere in the enclosed farm. Maybe they just false advertise making odd tourists like ourselves believe that they train elephants. We drove back to the front gate, and I demanded that we at least ask what's going on, having driven all this way for nothing.
I get out of the car, and approach the gate. I see this old man with snow-white hair and beard off in the distance, getting in his truck and driving towards me. He resembled this modern day Noah, who trying to collect as many elephants as he could, stopped at that...and then shut the world off, with his large gate, and just sat waiting for the flood to come. -And to heck with all the other animals and the rest of the world. As he drove towards me, I had to think of something good, something that may spark an interest in the old man, and him let us see his world of elephants. I remembered seeing on the website a classroom filled with students and then a list of countries somewhere in the writing below. I thought it to be some sort of school for elephant trainers. When he finally was within earshot, I sounded, a jolly good, British "Hullo". I then asked him in the best English accent I could muster up in such circumstances, if this was not, indeed, the school of elephanteering. I made up that word, hoping that it echoed with some strains of British vernacular. Old Noah, quickly responded very offendedly, "This is the elephant sanctuary." I, accepted his correction and then told him how I had heard about such a sanctuary at the college in Searcy, and I had to make a visitation out there. Because, I, being from England, have a family heritage there in Hampshire, my family dealing for years in the circus over there. And I just had to see these elephants. Of course, while I'm saying this, I'm beginning to realize that I sound more Australian than British. He then says that open house is this Saturday from 11 to 3. I saw that he wasn't going to budge even if I told him that I was Jack Hannah's nephew. I say thank you and then walk back to the car. I tell Will and Veronica what occurred. We drive back to Searcy, thinking that at least we now know when the times are open. As we are riding, we suddenly see the ostrich out in the cow pasture.
We then drive to Kinsett, to show Veronica this splendorous creature, the Zonkey. The Zonkey if you are not familiar with them at all...are half-zebra and half-donkey. This one in particularly has a white body with striped legs. We get out of the car. The Zonkey hops over to us in glee. I pet it, then Veronica feeds it some grass. Will stands over to the side with his hands in his pockets, probably afraid it may make him jump a little.

Out of the Night and into the Day

The rain thunders down. It's been one busy day in the social world. Went fishing with a Louisianian die-hard Republican debater and an Albanian metrosexual. Jordan, the future lawyer from New Orleans fell in the water, getting river mud on his Ronald Reagan T-shirt. But he enjoyed himself anyway, even finding good fishing worms as he crawled out of the river. The Albanian, Ernst, sulked with his thick accent about the ordeal of this true Arkansas experience, that of fishing, and kept tangling his line up on logs and branches, hoping not to get his European clothes dirty. I, who happened to come up to them while I was studying for a big test today out in the wilderness, stood there making comments on how I always bring bad luck to fishermen. That's why I never fish.
On my return back onto campus, thought to study but saw another friend of mine near the fountain, strumming his bass guitar sending his blues-like notes to mingle with the fountain waters. I walked over to him, to see what was going on. I began to study there as he played, this redheaded Arkansas boy we call Jace. Then, Rob with his bald head barren and dyed beard, stuts over with that distant glint of Russia in his eyes. Not long after his accompaniment on the steps, the newspaper photograher girl, walks over and asks Jace to pose with his guitar, that it really made one fine picture. I convinced the girl to allow me to be in the background in a thoughtful pose, as though looking off in the distance, staring at whatever old memory or inspiration his guitar strings were sending to my mind.
Went to class for the test. Passed it. The subject wasn't very hard. I've even retained some of the knowledge a couple of hours after spilling it out onto a scantron. King Alfred defeated the Vikings in 878 AD at the Battle of Reading.
After the test, found Scott, a Floridian who talked to me about his lady problems. I don't know why he thought that i had any solutions. About the only thing that i know is how to make things more interesting. I went to Backyard burger with Aaron and Chris. Two for one night. Was called later, by a friend from Colorado, Laniya, she invited me to Spring Sing. At first, I thought to skip out on this phenomenol event of our university, but I kind of wanted to see what everyone's been talking about, every since all my deacon's daughers and preacher's sons came to Harding.
I went with her and another friend of mine Chris. Sat throw the entire production, without yawning...I think, but I could be wrong. Chris was on my right, snapping pictures at every single performance. Laniya, was on my right, who I was trying to make funny remarks towards during the entire show. And there before me, was this vast phantasmogoria of swirling lights, and bright colors, jazzed sounds and movement, all sealed up in vibrant song. It was, at least entertaining. I came back to have prayer time with Justin Bland. We talked and prayed and it was probably the most impacting thing of the day.
Anyways, tomorrow, I head for Oklahoma for the Tulsa Workshop. I hope to see some people I haven't seen in awhile. I hope maybe find some open-door opportunities. I hope to have some tremendous fun

1st Night of the Revolt

What exactly would I find to pass the time during my nocturnal rebellion? About midnight when the clock strikes signifying my usual retreat into the bedsheets, I found myself waiting, leaning against some bricks for my friend, Will, to walk out. The campus lights are still beaming, but there is this quaint hushness that seals the night in a crouching, expectant frivolity .
Will Dockery works from 10-12pm every weekday night in the administration building. His voice is the voice that you hear if ever you call the information desk during these hours. Usually, I stop by and we chat and laugh, and occassionally our revelry is halted by a phone-call where Will descends back into his work mode giving, usually, the anxious boy the phone number of the girl that he is pursuing through the phone lines.
-But this particular night, I refrained from going so early and ended up deciding to swing by at about the same exact time that Will would be walking out. Now, Will, I must add, is awkwardly jumpy. One time, I walked through his front door while he and his wife were watching TV, for just a little hello, and the boy nearly fell over his coffee table in fright. His wife had to console him for a minute or two while they both mumbled something about they watching a case about house theifs on 20/20 as I barged in. I grinned and apologized very bleakly.
Now, I remembering this, wondered what would happen if I actually tried to scare him. So, there I leaned against the brick wall, waiting for him to descend the steps in this campus alley on the way to his car. I stood in wait, senses attuned to the slightest hint of his approachment. I waited and waited and to my ears not a sound of the door's opening could be heard. It must have been well after his time to clock off, I thought.
So, I sprinted around the building to the other side, looking up at the 2nd floor to see if the light in his room was still gleaming. It was. "He must be really into one of those frisbee websites..." I surmised. I then thought that I will just scare him inside. But I had to sneak inside the building to do so. Usually, I throw sticks at his window, letting him know its I, and he then rushes down and lets me in. But this time, that wasn't an option. So, I snook in through the back stage door, for this building just so happens to be the old theatre house with an old stage. I managed to get in, by crawling through one of the stage doors. The lights were bright and burning on center stage...there were many props and costumes and stage structures laying around, for the theatre class was in the process of some regular wacked-out production of theirs. I jumped off stage and through the aisles I ran to the lobby. And then climbed the stairs as quiet as a mouse. Yes, still there...the light beamed from under the office door. I then began to cut off all the lights, upstairs one by one. And then sat, crouched waiting in the darkness for him to emerge from the office door. I had to dodge security for a moment ducking into the restroom and making a slight noise that let Will know that I wasn't alone, I finally emerged again, seeing that the host was clear and reclaimed my crouching spot.
Sitting in the dark in such an old building is not a whole lot of fun, rumors and stories began to fill my mind, some really told, some I made up. At Harding there is this ghost story about a bride who died just after her wedding. Her spirit is said to haunt some of these old buildings. As I tried to force out these images, my mind flashed back to props and costumes that my eyes took in when I passed by coming through the building. I then, decided to let Will experience firsthand what I was experiencing in my imagination. I ran back towards the stage, seeing what creepy stage props I could find. I grabbed a white feminine sheet, that would do just fine as a bridal dress. And then I rushed over to find a bundled up baby doll...I don't know how this fits in the story...but it certainly gives one the chills looking at it. And finally, my eyes scanned over to the headless, female torso dressing mannequin in the corner. Wallah! I had myself the ingredients to a night that Will Dockery will never forget. I even had my selection of torsos. I grabbed one and ran, my arms full with all these grotesque items, hoping that he was still in that room. I kept rehearsing over in my mind, these words, screaming in a high shrill voice, "Where's my husband?!!"
However, just as I barged, into the lobby, Oh No!...he was coming down two minutes too early. I yelled hoping, that at least I can still make him startled a little. At this point Will sees me running out of the theatre carrying, most bizarrely, a female mannequin's torso and some other junk as I yell, and he of course still jumps clutching his heart. -And so, as you see, the full plans of my scare were completely ruined. And then, I went laughing hysterically over how scared he would've been had I succeeded, he just chided me calling me a jerk and an idiot, and saying how he was scared enough without my other equipment, that he had to go to that bathroom as it was; it definitely would have wet his pants had he waited 2 minutes more. Well, that was the collapse of some really good prank...and I bet he'll be suspecting me every night henceforth.
After that, I grabbed a scholarly book that I checked out from the library about poetic influence, and the anxiety for poets to recreate from the world of their imaginations, something that will still shock the outside world, my back against the brick wall of the same place outside where I first waited for him.

The Revolt of Sequence

I can tell you by self-assured oaths and lamp-lit rooms, that I have proposed my very own revolt. What else can I say....I hear its conspiracy knocking at my door every time I lay my head on my pillow hoping for some sort of relief...that is to slip very softly and peacefully into happy slumber. But I am not so fortunate.
No, my inner clock runs on a different time than most of the living world. For all of us have these inner clocks that keep the impression of set times and sequences, when this should be done or that should be done. Mainly, when the rhythmic sense alarms the body that it is time for sleep or food. But for some strange reason, my rhythmic alarm is all out of sync with everyone else's. So I've decided just to forget it all....No use in trying to cram my own catty-wonkered needs into the concrete schedules of the earth and its pressuring society. Nope, I'm going to sleep when I feel like it. Eat when my stomach growls for it. And attend meetings, class, and social situations whenever the event suits my mood.
I mean, as if the whole idea of us, having to consume food, drink, and sleep in order to survive wasn't already as annoying enough and already the basis for so many of the world's tragedies, we then have to add on to it this whole system of "this is when we must sleep", and "this is when we must eat", thereby further sealing the prison bars in our own prison cells. And for this reason, I now pronounce my straight-forward proclamation....that we of the modern era, in our victorious attempt at mass-producing beyond our needs, we, in our hazily-drawn line between resplendent luxuries and basic dependencies, we......get too much sleep and eat way too much.
-That's a fact, bottomline.
How much has the advancement of civilization been hindered because of our pillows? What if every single soul that lived and breathed on this earth since the days of Noah until the present age, what if every one of these humans gave up one hour of their sleep every night that they were resting on this earth? How much more advanced would we be?
So, for the reasons listed above, I will no longer sweat under my blankets wondering when the closure of sleep will take me. No, I resolve to convince myself beyond a doubt, that 8-7 hours of sleep a night is way too much and that there are countless other useful things to be done. Just 3 extra hours of reading a night would allow me to sift through a couple of books per week, that would then propel me through whole volumes in a month's time. My social life at the WaffleHouse could really pick up, I could be the most popular local there. -And the things that I could write....the ideas that I'd come up with....Do you see? Am I making any sense?....What if Edison had done the same? Why, his lightbulb would be the dimmest spark of his inventing output. And what about Whitcomb L. Judson? Well, you probably never heard of him. He invented the zipper. -And the reason you never heard of him is because he insisted on sleeping when everybody else slept and only invented the zipper in the daytime. He could've invented Velcro at night, and then he would be a real crazy-haired inventing madman.
Like the cycles of nature, days to nights, summers to winters, full moons to new moons, we somehow, mistakenly believe that we should do likewise. But man is forever cut off from nature, therefore he should specify the cycles of his own nature. And fight, fight against the closing of one's eyelids so easily, and strive to leave one's own rhythmic mark.

Confessions in the Flickering Light

So here I sit, a victim to the drudgery of the common day. I've always known that I was prone to it. My kind of personality, my frame of mind, I wrestle with its symptoms, a sick man laying in his sick bed, staring at the ceiling because most everything else is just as amusing. I'm not depressed. Just remarkably bored. Dullness when I think this thought, Dullness after the thought passes. Nothing but the same reactions in my listless kingdom of ennui.
Why, the first fruits of this year, they have been for the most part flavored with their own inner thrill. What I write here of is a sort of an awakening. A heightened awareness, whereas even within the most mundane of objects, I discovered, gleaming inside, a whole realm of tingling fascination. The world seemed too much to take in. Every moment's passings were the sweet inhaling and exhaling of an observed lover. I could be mesmerized by the echo of my own footsteps, I could be tantalized by a fallen leaf. I felt myself to be a Titan and a child in one.
Boundless wellsprings of creativity lurked in every syllable of an idea, in every corner of being. I couldn't stop my brain from indulging on such themes. I was as a bolt-wielding Zeus with my hands grappling lightning and the whole shock of existence. But yet, I was not a god, far from it. I was man at his finest moment. I knew my place....and that was as the beholder and sojourner of life's grand passage. There were times of anger and disappointment and loneliness, but for the most part I floated from these shades of darkness to delight upon delight, fascination to self-discovery, from personal emotion to universal significance, and then onto fathomless creative pools to enlightened ideas of revelation. I was a bee in the vast field of nature, and every flower, every petal, I drew sweet nectar from and flew about in the buzz of a honeyed-song afternoon.
-And everything, I mean everything, pointed to the infinite and the limitlessness of the God-breathed world. For God was everywhere that my eyes scanned, that my ears listened, that my feet trod and my heart quivered. And I was aware that I was only and singularly in such a delightful state because His presence was there.
-But now out of this awakening, I feel that I am falling asleep again. Into my fidgeting, my restless, anxious longing for something to give me a stir, or the faintest vibration of a thrill. But existence can be so trite sometimes. And restlessness is my truest self. Hardly ever do I feel alive if I am not longing for something. Antic after antic, analysis after analysis to ward off the spreading yawn of this dull ache in my bones. Only forgetting all the while what being truly alive is. If I could remain a child of wonder in these dimmed times and cloudy places.

Things As of Now

Spring break....last week....i meant to write, and write, and write, but as you can see...i have not done so. I think I tend to think about what i will write about instead of actually sitting down to write about whatever I am also thinking about, do you see. But somehow laziness found me as it always does and I am currently apologizing for it. Since so much happened and i don't want to write every little thing down and also how most of our stories and information always revolves around other people I will give you this past week in short characterized form:

Jonathan Towell: He retrieved the old wrestling suits. Dressed up like "Spiderdog" and went for another whoop at the Wafflehouse in Searcy. Ended up mistaking Jonathan's car for another and when i approached, realized that it was not his car but a carload full of angry young rednecks. A car chase ensued where I finally managed to shake them.

Brittney Harrison: My sister turned 19 last Sunday. She had 3 parties. One which was surprise where I arrived a day back in town before she thought I was to arrive. There was a mad game of twister, dancing, cake, and more cake, videos, a mock proposal, a grill-out, and karaoke, and more fellowship and fun than can rightfully be called a party for my sister.

Jovan Barrington: Youth ministering as usual. Rode with him to a conference. Had great talks about women, God, and crazy stories from high school...some how these can all be tied together...i will devote my life as to finding this connection.

B-Diddy: Same guy that I remember. It was good to see him again. Was dared by him and Joe to go up to a coat salesman at this conference with a European officer's hat on and pretend to be a Nazi and not speak a word of English while all the while, attempting to try on a coat and mumbling gibberish in frustration while the fidgety salesman tried to aid my ranting try-on . Did this, and it was pretty funny.

Brad Clayton: Spent some time catching up with him. Just like ole times. Hearing this great coffee-house bard ramble out his stories one after the other.

Brett Harrison: My brother, teacher in Tennessee and soccer coach. Went to see some of his kids play soccer this past weekend. The whole family got to spend time together there in the rolling hills of Tenn.

Bill Watkins: Old preacher, I got to hear him twice this past week when I haven't heard him in the past 5 years. It was as it always was very encouraging.

So that sums the whole events of the week. But my thoughts always seem to be different from outer experience (or reality). As well as my feelings. Maybe i'll share the accumulation of these later. Or maybe I'll just keep on experiencing new and interesting things, we'll both see.

A Tale of 3 Fountains

Here it is, the same sacred spot here in Dothan, nearly a year ago...Where I fell to my knees in brokenness. Much has changed since then. I'm out of school for spring break, whereas I've already driven home and helped surprise my sister, Brittney, for her surprise birthday party. I've been to church, hearing a great speaker that I heard once in Russia. But now, I am here at this sacred spot. Every person should have these sacred spots hidden behind the branches of a forest, sealed beneath the blanket of an amazing sky, locked within the bosom of solitude. -And there unlock the dimmed events of our weary hearts and thoughts, casting light upon those things we hide from ourselves, other people, and attempt to hide from a greater power. -And now just to let things flow....
In my life, I have drank from 3 fountains. These fountains are the substance of all that's good and desireable in this universe. The first fountain I stumbled across in Florida. I was in the oldest city in this hemisphere, St. Augustine, on a high school art trip. Our hotel, was not far from the legendary Fountain of Youth. One night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, my mind charmed by old tales of this legend, that some claimed(mainly commercialism)lay not far from where I lay. So I snuck out of my room and crept through the mists and willows of the frog-sung night. I slipped through the gates that held this fountain and there lept over the murky moat where the old, ancient fountain spouted its youthfulness into the darkness of the night. The water tasted like the very opposite of its content. It tasted foul and dead. I gulped it down, nevertheless, delighting in the knowledge that I was gulping down life itself. Then I left very quickly when I wandered the area realizing that I had stumbled into Indian burial grounds.
The 2nd fountain, I approached in the ruinous city of Delphi, in the strummed prophetic heartschord of Greece. The fount flowed down....down...from Parnassus, the mountain of the Muses, tumbling across rock and stone, crashing into the gulley below. And those who sipped from this fountain, it was as though they plucked heaven's most radiant flower and imbibed the sweet mountain nectar from its petals, and from such delicate drought, a flowing of poetic inspiration, would blossom forth in that person's life. I reached my hand in through the bars, cupping a pool of inspiration and placed it to my lips, pouring down the creative ambrosia. It tasted like its opposite also. It tasted dull and steely.
The 3rd fountain, flows on and on. I first plunged into it 13 years ago. -But one doesn't know the full context of what one is getting into at such an age. One learns from continued partakings of the magnitude of such a fountain. From these waters flow purity. They wash one into righteousness. It the fountain of forgiveness. Such a fountain of joy should spring from a laughing source, one would think, but it is also like its opposite, and tastes salty and bitter. And warms the cheeks as it runs down gushing from the fountainhead of my awakening eyes, that see the lost reality of my own life.
....What would you say, dear reader, if you knew that the writer of this entry had defied the source of all 3 of these fountains? That I shook my fist at the heavens, crying into what seemed at the time, nothingness, the frothings of my uncontrolled spirit? Is there anything more ridiculous than a foolish compilation of dust railing at its own Creator? I seem to be a creature composed of rage and venom. I deserve nothing but, at best, death.
But I know, through the revisiting of this sacred spot, and the quick dash of its memory, I know that this is not the entire story. That was only my half of the story, the other half is.....
I won't ever forget the time I called and the time He answered, or the time He knocked and I answered. These two things live forever in my memory. One without the other can never be. So they both live on enshrouded together.
3 fountains I have drunk from. The first brought forth youth and life. Its Spirit swept where death was. The 2nd fountain poured forth divine creation and resonated with nature itself. The 3rd fountain gushed from two hearts pricked by sin, and was best drank when the knees touch the ground. Here is...well, everything important. We have the wellspring of life, we have the presence of a creating power, and we have the monumental redemption of our very souls. I say all this to let others know that I'm finally starting to grasp how important the 3rd fountain is. This fountain is the greatest challenge to fully grasp. Life...beauty...we know these attributes to gush with sacredness. A person cannot be born into this world without thirsting after these things. But that my darkest sins are washed away, and can be considered no more....this is the fountain that I sometimes forget about.

The Lament of the Last Highwayman

I have to buy a ticket soon. Way up to Canada to see the frightful execution of a good friend. Yes, his time's arrived. Another compadre awaiting his sentence. What else can I say? -But that these things begin to occur when one is my age. One by one, my friends dropping like flies, being gunned down and captured in outlandish places. -And I'm always the one standing beside them, right before the board swings from under their feet, left remembering what fine horseman they once made.
Rybee Woods was the first to go. We all knew it would happen. The way he courted danger. I could hear that sad harmonica wail from the first moment I met him. We traveled all the way up to Washington for the day of his lynching. Standing there, I daren't cut the rope but let my mind drift back to the time we roamed through many a Grecian range.
Next was Cashio, a wild and magnificent bandit, being shot down in a Turkish saloon. I think the earth groaned and shook the day one of her best son's took that loathsome bullet. If he should go down so early and so easy, then there ain't much hope left for the rest of us.
Then Jackson fell, taken by a knife stab in the back. It just crept up on him so slowly and so stealthily. You could barely hear his dying words as he collapsed across the card table.
After that, Cheshire was gunned down. His hand....his poor hand was too slow. His lead-filled body matched his own drooping shadow, as he lay a victim of the burning sun's afternoon showdown. So many people were dramatically moved by his burial. I could barely keep myself still, thinking about the days of our youthful abandon and how they now are gone. Two comrades of mine, also bit the dust. Though they were in Russia for sometime with me, I couldn't save them.
Then, the incarceration of my own brother happened. If there wasn't a more sure-footed desperado to fall, I know not whom. There had to be a high price on his head. He was eventually captured, bound, and chained by a bounty hunter that trailed him all the way to China. Now he rests groggily in the jailhouse. This event was followed shortly by the imprisonment of another rolicking outlaw friend of mine, Papa Towell. He sits imprisoned in a cell not far from my present hide-out. Every now and then I see his defeated head through the barred windows, squinting, his eyes unused to the sunlight.
I, myself, not too long ago, was wounded by a poisonous arrow shot from Indian hands, when I wandered somewhere far below Mexico, and was beginning to think the end was near. The arrow poisoned my brain, as it always does. Luckily, it wore off and thru much pain, I'm still standing and back to my senses.
I thought my friend, Jovan, should get out alive. At one time he was chained, being hauled off on a prison-train. -But through a remarkable feat, he slipped the chains and jumped the train, pulling off one extraordinary escape in the niche of time. I was proud of him. "Bravo! Now, that's true grit." I cheered. -But soon, not many months later, the posse caught up with him once again; he just can't seem to stay away from those cuffs.
Now my friend Jeremy Bojarski is headed for the hangman's noose. Mr. Play-it-safe. There was a time when he, himself, thought he was the safest man in the whole band. -But no, not even he escaped ruin.
Yep, though I'm noted for my speed and scars, it won't be long....it won't be long. I've rambled on this side of the Atlantic. I've rambled on that side of the Atlantic. I've brawled and spit and shot and raided. I've remapped deserts and rerouted mountains. I've drunk the sun's rays and sobered myself with the moon's light. I've befriended the stars calling on them to save me when the hour approaches....
......I lay in a town seethed in gunsmoke. Bullets fly every which way. There's a hanging every week. Every which way I walk, I feel the scope upon my neck...Eyes greet me...Such beautiful, lucious eyes in every crowd....They smile....But I know their murderous intent behind those smiles. I just don't know which pair of eyes will be the ones that will lay me low...and belong to my fated assassin. At night, I can sometimes hear their hound dogs baying. They're after me. Sometimes upon hearing, them I freeze. I want to move, but part of me can't move. I can hear a soft weak voice whispering inside for me to yield and turn myself in. Sometimes this voice gets louder and louder until I think it's myself thinking these thoughts. If I can just get out of this town alive, I'll be a true survivalist. Here they come. I've still got a belt full of bullets and a couple of cards up my sleeve....Let them come....I've still got some ounce of wildman in me....Let them come...the sunset never looked so gorgeous in this radiant shootout and glorious freedom never seemed so costly.