I keep thinking of some blue glass beads I'll buy from an old Iroquese woman , one uncertain day,on my way from east to west across America. I would wear them under my faded tees , just to feel them pulsate in the rythm of my heart. I would wake up half choked by them,stranded in my hair .In murky motels I would reluctantly take them of for a moment or two and place them in a sink filled with ice cold water ;once their purity restored, they would absorb dessert smoke and highway lights,lines from songs their name I know not of and all the beauty that lies in front of me ,mile by mile, vanishing as I approach it and coming to life again and again and again.

"We'll never be young again" -Noblesse Oblige ,I will pretend I'm innocent and life's just starting .I will take pleasure in learning to forget and forgetting to learn again.I will act sixteen, like a willowy sixteen year old girl , who slept through today in order to dream of tomorrow. I will do that, each waking moment of each day - except the times I let my beads cool down. Those times, I shall pretend are dead times, milisecconds lost as I calibrate my life. Once I put them on again I shall be careless and expect that life would provide me with fast moving scenery and endless love. "We'll never be young again" ,I'll say to myself as I camp unde red skies and grey skies and skies covered in roaring thunders and light. I can only hope my beads may capture it all -a token for the day I shall wake up old and stiffened anf never be sixteen again.The road will end there. At seventeen,I would simply be too old.