I’ve got the bug. You’ve got it too, so you know what i mean.
“Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage.” Steinbeck
These are my rambles, my rhymes and my roads.