one-hundred; Blake, Schwinn Premis

Sartre once said, “Every age has it’s own poetry.”
He’s just trying to hear it.
If journalism is dead then he’s a gravedigger.
If the Internet is pushing people away, then he’s pulling them back.
He’d like to think people read what he writes, but realizes he’s painting sepia-tone in a Technicolor world.
When he grows up, he wants to be a good son, a decent friend and a competent speller (can’t blame a guy for dreaming).
Foreign here, he’s always home where someone’s telling him their story.
He’s ridden awhile, and tonight this looks like a good stopping place