Time passes and pisses on us all. (W.C. Williams once said that to Ezra Pound, and he was right.) It's late in the day, now. I've hummed every tune I know. There is only the wind, bastard seagulls and occasional creak and scuttle of passersby - mostly regulars and carnies - on the boardwalk. And in the distance, the ongoing draw and seethe of that keening abyss.I figure at best I've got another twenty years left in me. (Maybe ten left in the Torpedo.) And just how many years are left in the boardwalk as we know it is anybody's best guess. Jellybeans in a jar. Grains of sand in an hourglass. This whole place could evaporate tomorrow and some people wouldn't mind it if it did.
Time passes and pisses on us all. And aren't we all giving up the ghost by degrees?
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