A Concise Addition to the Former Post 6/07

(Note: The following is an addition to my previous note and could just as well be entitled: "A Description of The Potential Stranding: A Premonitory Reverie" Well, enjoy, for here it is: )

Black, rubbery shreds, lying castoff on the roadside, among the mica and the myriads of glinting, argent quartz that speckled and pebbled the asphalt. Maybe one or two of the shards would become airborne, flying high, wide and crazy and land with a hollow but potent thud deep among the weedy lot that housed an octagonal sumac thicket of tremendous size. Perhaps the arc they would describe as they went aloft would be a wild, wide circle of some sort. Perhaps it would seem that the sumac thicket had been pelted by the blackish shreds. The wind might blow among them, turning them, twisting them, moving them, pushing them along so that they seemed like a tumbleweed, and the area near them like a desert, like that wide, longitudinal lot some miles to the southeast, closer to the edge and the coast of the town, that once contained a local convenience store of great renown and the mountainous midden of accumulated grayish dirt and gravel that lay at the extreme end of that dusty, dirty, scruffy weedy lot. A lot fringed with hirsute tufts of verdant grass, clinging to the edges and growing profusely without check. Dancing chaotically, seductively in the seaborne breezes that buffeted that littoral area. That might be his fate, to be stranded, lost and alone, ignored and among the vacant lots and tiny copses, all scruffy with weeds, that dotted that escarpment-rife, oddly terraced and descending to the orbicular hub of the town: The Kittery Traffic Circle; an area whose center was open and free, but whose sides and fringes were havens of swamps, wooded hills, gravelly ridges and weedy, empty, dusty lots. It was not a pleasant thought. He hoped fervently that it was not a premonitory in anyway. Just a far-fetched, paranoid thought-nothing more. He would not end up in weedy lot, bordered by structural eyesores like that nearby crumbling, faded, ancient, peeling filling station and the lines and blobs of sumac trees, some faint and dreamy in the bluish haze created by the sense of distance, others rearing up like some tropical, nemoral beast, ready to immolate him or any intruder. This thought, with the exception of the portion that compared close sumac thickets to a behemoth that would devour him, was much more realistic, reassuring and comforting, sans any and all of the pathetic, cringing moribundity of the previous one. Maybe the nearby lots that lingered on the sides of the sloping, convex hill had a stark, morbid, terrible poetic beauty, but that did not mean that he wanted to be lingering forever or even ephemerally among them.