(Aug 11, 2015) The road was a mess. The bus’s suspension worse. Every pothole powdered my spine. Of course Fumiko slept on. Her head pivoting to wherever gravity took it. Most everyone else was conscious saudemasculina.pt. The groans from the wounded synchronized with the impacts. There were hours yet to go. I looked across the aisle at a young boy. His cheeks impossibly chubby. I watched fascinated as those cheeks registered every potholes slam by rippling. Someone started to vomit. Some days the road is a little too long.

The Western Wall

Graves