|Blogs > rm_philfort > Fantasy Island|
At exactly 12:07 am, in a deserted men's room of a Soho subway station, I take off my color and leave it hanging on a toilet stall door. I won't need it where i'm going . .
At the same moment, just south of Nashville, Tennesee, a lady dressed only in Innuendo, which contrary to popular belief is not the hot new Italian designer of the day, waits for a tow truck . . her midnight train to Georgia leaking doubt like six gallons of water in a 5 gallon bucket. If she is on her way to no good, she'll never tell.
Near Palm Springs, California, a mysterious wind rolls tumbleweeds like bowling balls across the desert floor . . the saguaro cactus do not yield. Our wind blows on.
On a stretch of Cape Hatteras sand near Killdevil Hills, the ghosts of Wilbur and Orville Wright watch a 747 rip the night sky in two. From the vacant expressions on their transparent faces, one would be hard pressed to say they looked proud. etc.