In the language of the interwebs, this is The. Best. Picture. Taken. Of. Me. Evar.
My lopsided head is pulling in alien transmissions that are explaining everything in the developing world to my five-year-old brain.
I have the expression of one to whom a lot of things are suddenly becoming verrrrrrrrrry clear.
I am the membrane through which all knowledge must pass.
But the best thing about these transmissions from the cosmos? They don’t require me to put down my sammich.
All visionaries should be so lucky.
Somewhere between Rochester, N.Y., and Alderson, W. Va., summer 1978.