They thought we were waiting. So adroitly we refuted the garden rose the gardener had to cross the street full of doubts. What mama said sometimes, whatever. Should Big Bob get his gift, without embarrassment whatsoever. That his own language is a harsh one, for we would need sometime with him at the garage. When mama put everything at sale I was reading Moby Dick. And O! I sailed. When she wanted to clean the house I knew she was trying to be over something. And it was better if we were just fine fooling around with books and some papers. And friends came by and brought old packets full of albums no one could tell. Even Big Bob catched up when the dusted sting stole the silence from my room. That we could take the road to something. Upper and left we'd like to go. Always. So told our socks and shoes and old fashioned guitars. And we already had the intuition women, gardens and roads were the same at some level. And we, we were too.