Folded Thought of the Day:

Flipping through a collection of photographs.  A scrapbook 
of memories, of battle cries, triumphs, failures, missed 
opportunities, washed away beauty.  A montage flashing by, 
with an acoustic guitar playing somewhere in the back of 
the mind.  Closets full of treasures, a baseball glove, your 
brother's wallet, a Buffalo Nickel handed down from the strong 
hands of your grandfather -- reflected in the proud profile.

A house on the plain.  Built with hands.  Porch tilting 
with your dizzy recollections.  A black and brown dog 
running, captured in an instant, held with such joy by 
the grinning boy, a never-let-go happiness.. yeah, the 
same dog that ran onto the neighbor's property one day.  
Do you still hear that rifle shot?  In the night.. on 
your way home.. does that explain those times you find 
yourself crying and you're not sure why.  Or is it a 
recurring theme?  The needle picking itself up and 
resting at the beginning of the song.

Turn the page.

Who's showing you these images?  What keeper of the night 
is capturing your secrets.  What intention is being 
declared?  At this hour...

A tire swing hanging from a branch that would never 
break.  How many bodies have swung from that withered 
rope?... fragmenting history.  Swinging to the screams 
and giddy restlessness of euphoric release.  And what 
do those notches in the tree really represent?  Who 
was counting?  Better not dig too deep on these 
grounds, some memories are best left undisturbed.  

How many dark attics can you afford to enter?

A carousel in the distance.  A lost boy holding the 
hand of a stranger.  Look away.. or stick around for 
the ride.  Spinning faster now.  Out of control.  
Laughing conductors, slippery poles, nothing to hang 
on to.. for dear life.  With a pocket full of tickets, 
what angel saw you through that fun house?  Took you 
beyond the mirror, that distorted image, a reversal 
of fortune.  A last minute shakedown.

A New Orleans parade.  Wild revelry, smiles to beat 
the band.  Crazy great music, sinister alleys, 
outlandish costumes, token embraces.  Shift attention.  
A juke joint on the outskirts of Memphis.  Floorboards 
rattling.  Heels a'kicking.  Coulda sworn that was 
ol' Gene Kelly whooping it up in the corner.  On the 
town... one last time.  

Where were you?

A seagull, floating in mid-air.  Fighting the wind 
and holding its ground.  Joining in on our little 
celebration.  A weekend at the ocean.  In love.  
Seafood and beer in some beach restaurant -- really 
nothing more than a collection of loosely connected 
pieces of rotting wood, an awning with a few tables 
scattered along the sandy floor.  Sure tasted 
good though.  Looking back, can you remember when 
those nails started to loosen, when the driftwood 
began to drift apart.  Standing now, in the windswept 
space where the foundation once was laid.  

That song kicking in again.  This time someone seems 
to be sitting in on the harmonica.  Trying to fill 
in an absence... this impasse.

Light drifting through now.  A new morning fading 
into view.  Let it unwind.