Some of the finest hours of my youth were spent mucking around in junkyards in the great Southwest; and in trainyards. Some low, sweet song stems nearly unheard, only gradually reaching the conciousness, whispering of man's mechanical creations, murmuring about greatness; and of folly, too, and finally dies out among the dry thistle of those hallowed grounds. I sat in many a rusting hulk, and wondered where it had been, who had directed it's journey, and what had become of the lives it had once been intertwined with. My imagination soared, as I shifted the impotent transmission, and stared into the empty sockets of the oncoming hulk in the next row. Imaginary tires protested sharp corners, passengers clung for dear life, and rivals were vanquished. My sweaty palms gripped the Buick Roadmaster wheel, as I gracefully swept from town to town on an eternal journey, seeing sights, and hearing sounds that are now unavailable to my inflexible modern adult mind.

Greg Stoner