The merge from the turnpike was murder, but it's never a cinch. It was Friday at five, and no one was giving an inch. They squeezed and the edged and they glared.
Must've been in late September. When last I climbed Reunion Hill. I fell asleep on Indian Boulder. And dreamed a dream I will not tell. . I came home as the sun went down.
It's the middle of the night. Near the Indiana line. I'm pulling in a Christian station. The signal's crystal clear. But I cannot really hear. What he says about the Revelation.