The wild frontier lays wait with its beautiful painted splendor.  It isn’t a dream.  It’s real inspiration taking on the form of literature.  It’s a literature crying out to be heard and respected.  Ghost towns and gold rushes prance across this prairie to flooded California and I’m still a yankee boy stuck here to on the East Coast.  I don’t really appear to have anywhere to go.  I’ll just kick back and make this fancy a fabric of reality.  Never let them tell you that it can’t be done.  Blaze a trail across the range of the fields.  We’re gonna ride off into the beautiful red sunset.  Take no prisoners on this one.  It’s too hotly inspired.  Now we’re starting to see the blood, sweat and tears.  Perhaps we might be able to get it right this time.


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allets's picture

Nice Image

"...the range of the fields."  ~S~



georgeschaefer's picture

mucho gracias

mucho gracias