Simple lives.

I want to get out of America with all its stray cat methamphetamine toughs and empty garages and girls stuffed into two ounces of fabric with no feeling in their hearts anymore. Could we be happy where the sun sets on the graceful curve of hilltops or in a flat valley blanket of wild rose? Where cold rapids threaten to take your swimsuit yet you laugh unselfconsciously and later around the hissing fire we drink a beer and tell tall tales smiling and unconcerned with maintaining female or male, only our human dignity and decency. Can people truly connect? Could it be that simple?

Funny how time goes, though. One moment you're scared out of your wits and don't know why; it's just a feeling of supreme inadequacy and embarrassing doubt. The next you're lofty as trousers billowing about on the high cycle in the great coin-op dryer of life. I want to be a family man because family and love are important, but I want to stay vital and growing and interested until the day I die. If I repeat myself now and then, something's gone wrong. Everything cliche-free phrase longer than ten words, statistically, will be unique in your lifetime. Or so I've read.

I don't even trust what I read anymore, but it keeps me busy. Could we, do you think?