Sunday Morning Thoughts: 3.17.19

My feet are blistered. As are my hands. A familiar ache, better handled by the younger body inhabited upon the ritualistic initiation. Though, to be fair to my current older self- the kid fell asleep in the bar the first St. Pat’s in a kilt.

Sunday Morning Thoughts: 1.7.18

So. I got another stamp in the ol’ passport. And a few more pages gone from blank to scribbles in the pocket notebook I had, with cheesy poetics, dedicated to only being used for travel. A good few leaves filled out, as went with this summer. Though different. Each time, each way, each day- all…