I spoke over the airwaves: If anyone’s interested in going to the pub after my show to hear some music, call in.
The light flashed and on the phone, voice of a stranger, I didn’t expect.
“Hi, my name’s Tom. What’s going on at the pub? I don’t have a car…”
Either do I.
“I’d bike with you.”

Possibly the voice of half my soul, receiving my transmissions through the FM dial.

Riding in the cool wet January air under almost full moon, alive, thinking there are others like me and anything can happen in this poetic masterpiece, the real estate sign said, “Sacred is the season that produces a conspiracy of love.”

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