I don't know when I discovered as a kid that East Lake Park is usually empty in the wee hours of Sunday mornings. Like a great many things in life, I find it to be best without people. There's something peaceful, even in this messed up enema insertion point of Tennessee, about a still pond with an errant swan slumming it with us ghetto folk under the same moon that all the rich fucks have to share with the rest of us. The walk is vastly different from when I was a kid walking to school. I'm not constantly looking in every direction for possible attackers, but nearly every corner is replete with the memory of a fight or tense encounter with one or more of our local cast of crackheads. It's like walking through a mile and a half of the should'ves, could'ves, and why-didn't-yous that plague me in the shower. The brilliant comebacks that my brain took a few years to generate. The punches I regret throwing, and those I regret not throwing. I was in the middle...
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