Hanging out in the 316 this weekend was a lot of fun.
And made me come close to losing my nerve.
I lose touch with my connections sometimes, the grandma about to enter her 9th decade, aunts and uncles and a raft of cousins, salt of the earth citizens most of them. I listened to their soft twangs the other day and wondered what the hell am I doing, writing about affairs and dead bodies and existential dissatisfaction.
Walking down Wichita's Kellogg Street late Friday night, I looked down the empty boulevard and felt a twist of familiarity.
This is my place, these are my people.
I know them. Don't I? Do they know me?
We share existential alienation as though it the gene that bequeathed us chocolate brown eyes or a knack for fixing things.
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