It was the summer of eighty-nine and people were talking about a new poet in the neighborhood, some freighthopping scarecrow who slept in the forest and smoked what appeared to be actual opium from a long wooden pipe. His work revolved around esoteric topics like Cantor Sets and Klein Bottles that remained incomprehensible even after cursory library research.

Somewhat predictably, after a few months of rumors and random sightings he vanished from the town altogether not unlike he had initially appeared. Days prior to his disappearance there were reports of a girl dressed in all black on the country roads at night who floated out of the darkness in truck headlights or the orange beams of fishing lanterns.

I guess times really are always changing, whether you notice it at the time or not. As Old Will once said: “The key to living a long life is to avoid doing tons of dangerous drugs, and then lie about it later in interviews when asked about the key to living a long life.”

Nate East
The Hill of Dreams
Arthur Machen