From the verses of Shakespeare to the violence of Football, a soft hand on the nape of my neck to a rim's hard rattle after a dunk, the mute of Miles to the rhymes of Rakim, Hershey's chocolate to a garlic peppered, cedar-planked salmon, Joel Dias-Porter's thoughts scatter like grains of black sand across a wind-blown beach.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Just because I can. I can't decide what's more sublime, the lips or what comes out of them. Feeling this though. Get on this train now while there are good seats available.
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