The Voices

All the practice doesn't seem to calm the nagging voice in my head, " it waits" the voice calls.

Wispering the hum of the blacktop as it glides in anger under the weight of guilt when I step into the garage and see the look of sorrow on the Black Pearl.

The tires haven't seen the end of the driveway in months, it just sits, burdened by the ravages of time.

I've made a few calls and checked around to find a replacement radiator, nothing good was to be had. I've emailed a vendor in an attempt to coax some favorability towards my cause, however no reply has been received. The state of the economy must be in such great a state that a reply to a potential buyer is not warranted.

It could have been my use of bad grammar and misspellings that detoured them from further contact.

Alas "there's someone in my head and it's not me" still continues to grate away the thin veneer of patience that I have. Mocking me in the days sun, as pound after pound of chrome and glass rumble by on the street as I sit in wait.

Punished by the opportunity to helm that beautiful Thunderbird a few weeks past. The smell of an old car always remains no matter the extent of the restoration. It's as if the years build into the steel like rings in the trunk of a tree.

The Pearl waits for her turn, patiently, having had seen more then a half century of trials and tribulations, the after glow of a world war, the power of flowers and a policing conflict, the decadence of the Reagan years and the swell of the souls from the emerald city.  

Time halving already looking favorably upon the Pearl's past, however my time to helm this ship is limited. I have a number of years to be reckless and still have the quickness in my hands to get the back of the car returned from a poor decision.

But nothing lasts forever, so again to the list of Craig to find that gem that can return the wind to the sails.