I love them old flat faced tractor and trailers, which I guess are just the tractor with or without the trailer, but if I said “tractor”, you’d imagine the wrong thing entirely. I hadn’t checked the Powerball numbers from the other night, but if I won, I’m not moving nowhere. But I’m gonna surround the yard with old school vintage big rigs, painted back in the day in bold and garish designs, but now faded mot likely, and line them up like transformer sentinels, facing outwards around the entire perimeter of my land. It’s not even my land though, just says so at the courthouse and I have to pay property taxes on it because of all that, so since I’m guessing I’d be rich, I’d also start putting them flat faced guardians elsewhere on the Earth, down in the woods, along the river here or there, just leave them. And on the inside, we’ll leave behind cryptic poems or essays. In fact, fuck it, let’s just have a special compilation zine of what happens after the end times, with vague threats about the rights of nature overtaking police state, and we’ll leave a new issue in every flat faced sentinel guard big rig we scatter as ominous but beautiful warning. In fact, it won’t be ominous at all, unless you’re an asshole, who wants to keep going the way things are in overdrive, as if it’s sustainable. Anyways, I might check those Powerball numbers later tonight, or I might this fantasy ferment for another day or two.
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