My car is bleeding oil in such a bad way. I will have to wait to the sun comes up to see what I can do about it.
I fear that my car's last days are near.
Today I went exploring an old amusment center that closed down. I grew up in the area I'm now in. I remember when the place opened. They created a lake, waterfalls, and canals. They imported exotic plants and Peruvians (couldn't any citizens do the work?) to construct the thatch roofed buildings. It was a real wonder when it opened: miniature golf courses, a race track, an arcade. . . a tropical themed carnival, complete with a scenic ship wreck. Bamboo and palm everywhere. Fire breathing "natives."
Now it is completely reclaimed by nature, hidden away in the woods. Even the parking lot has trees growing up through the pavement. A lot of the buildings are damaged by fire. The fire must have occured after it closed. Grafitti tags are everywhere.
Occasionally I would spook an animal, hiding away in some small crevice. Hearing my footsteps, birds scatter to the air.
Not a human soul in sight.
Shelley poems come to mind.
American Ozymandius.
Not may endure but mutability.
Soon the mile marker in me rolls over to thirty. What a strange time, what a strange, strange time.
I fear that my car's last days are near.
Today I went exploring an old amusment center that closed down. I grew up in the area I'm now in. I remember when the place opened. They created a lake, waterfalls, and canals. They imported exotic plants and Peruvians (couldn't any citizens do the work?) to construct the thatch roofed buildings. It was a real wonder when it opened: miniature golf courses, a race track, an arcade. . . a tropical themed carnival, complete with a scenic ship wreck. Bamboo and palm everywhere. Fire breathing "natives."
Now it is completely reclaimed by nature, hidden away in the woods. Even the parking lot has trees growing up through the pavement. A lot of the buildings are damaged by fire. The fire must have occured after it closed. Grafitti tags are everywhere.
Occasionally I would spook an animal, hiding away in some small crevice. Hearing my footsteps, birds scatter to the air.
Not a human soul in sight.
Shelley poems come to mind.
American Ozymandius.
Not may endure but mutability.
Soon the mile marker in me rolls over to thirty. What a strange time, what a strange, strange time.