where art collides philosoperontap

I sipped at my beer and listened to Santana in the corner of the room. Its part of the quality of life, the escapist answer. My mind floated, careless. Who needs yoga? Sometimes I shut my eyes and just listened. It’s not often I afford myself the luxury. Bongos beat, guitar slid. In the darkness I was in Southern California. Palm trees lost in a narcotic haze, convertibles at the beach, crash of Pacific rollers twenty four hours a day, driftwood bonfire, beer and Jack, blondes and bandanas. I ran my hands through my hair, unfashionably short. My head tilted back and I slept, waking now and then when the music changed its occasional mood. A boy fetched me another. Endless vacation. Endless love. Smell of the night. Laughter beyond the orange grove. Chink of glass. Barefoot children run freely.