MAKE MAGIC REAL

Texas, oh I hardly know ye

I am currently situated in the void that is commonly known as the “lone star” state. A ghost state hanging on by a few strong threads, taught threads in which I hope to run along - jumping to and from.

Galveston is a cultural haven devoid of all identifiable culture, a true black hole of youth, freshness, and activity set in an atmosphere of victorian architecture, cheese filled tourismo, and breaking brown water. I like my beach side paradise lost, it is down and out in a way that is alluring and draws more sympathy than it does distaste. My folks are here, their dog is here, some friends are here, and I am here - and that is enough to be happy about. The boys in blue are rare as blue water, when the revolution sparks it will blaze here and other ghost towns. Ghost towns, meant not with the connotation of desolation, but more so to give the tinge of something lost. This town weeps for what it once had, not in tears, but in creaks of wrap around porches, in the flapping of weathered flags, in the spires, turrets, widowswalks, and relics of grandeur that are truly ghosts. Present society doesn’t cherish hardwood. I’ll take photos.

Austin you second string, hold fast for I will sample your soil soon enough, let’s say friday. Tallahassee, you are magical - and I’m no fool for cheap tricks.

Galveston is neat, sincerely. Come visit.