Paying homage to the dead who have written before me. Critiques of mankind and a cynical nature, a man I admired spat his truth in frustration. Whether right or wrong, he pronounced his voice and lived with conviction. The dead still affect the living.
They prep for the excursion buying flasks of water, strapping a pint to their sides, weighing out their costumes. I put on my pointed hat, leathers. My outfit draws my mirror's smile. I promise myself to finally get a bowl of the ever delicious smelling mushroom soup.