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I need a ride.
One of my best buds is in the hospital recovering from his crash last week, a co-worker committed suicide last Thursday, and it's foggy.
I'm jonesing for the tranquility of the mountains, the pastoral beauty of smooth ribbons of rain-cleaned asphalt undulating through tree-lined wilderness.
Like a Coco Puff in a bowl of milk, a cockroach in a New York City Apartment, a mole on Cindy Crawford's face, I have a Zen Place; my place is astride my bike. A place where it all seems right and the universe makes sense.
One of my best buds is in the hospital recovering from his crash last week, a co-worker committed suicide last Thursday, and it's foggy.
I'm jonesing for the tranquility of the mountains, the pastoral beauty of smooth ribbons of rain-cleaned asphalt undulating through tree-lined wilderness.
Like a Coco Puff in a bowl of milk, a cockroach in a New York City Apartment, a mole on Cindy Crawford's face, I have a Zen Place; my place is astride my bike. A place where it all seems right and the universe makes sense.