With deep voices, camels crawl systematically on a wire that stretches from our start to their finish. We paid for tickets and laundered the first money to get rid of our dirty pockets. Because an urban rhythmist said that some understand, we’d thought we could ride these camels into the sunset.
We also signed up for a cruise. It was a green cruise we were told–meaning we’d travel through forests, both amazon and alpine. After packing a suitcase each and a carry-on bag, we boarded the “boat” or “ship” or “cruise liner.” It left from Sain Canscorf, a secret port they said. As the development of our travel continued, it became clear that Sain Canscorf is fairly well-known for frequent buyers of fat, death green information. A steward took our bags and checked our tickets. Simply punching holes at their carelessly chosen edges. On board we found seats in a fluorescent lit alcove of crammed families. Poor enough to afford tickets. They were heading to a destination and this wasn’t a joy ride.
When the camels didn’t come right out and say it, we knew there would be trouble. It would be a long way to home for the children. Mothers drizzled stale wine on their scalps to soothe tremoring concepts and endear the latent passions. A small house wouldn’t cost much in the forest (at least they told themselves that) and soon the boat would arrive. It took forever to find a post office; think of culture getting ahead all the time and those automobiles blankly facing the sea, windshields like eyes that gloss waves in hightense panorama. We walked down from the post office, extra stamp in hand, and feel liberated in the fell of air rebreathed by the ocean. Must keep it short.