I searched through Santa Rosa’s parched desert,

I wandered, disconsolate, among the chilled-air corridors of Best Buy, seeking a device that apparently their artificers no longer fabricate, or not in the particulars I required.

I hied myself to my gray trusty steed, Camry, and we fled;

West, across the sere and straw-hued hills,

West, among the trunks of the behemoths, those green-boughed and red-wooded giants,

West, into a reviving veil of moist silvery mist,

West through the spice of laurel trees and the jammy perfume of ripe wild berries that gleamed black and shiny as rubies against their five-lobed leaves,

West, until we reached the shores of a fog-drenched sea.

Seriously, it was awesome. Like 58 degrees.



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