Tramps like us

The suicide machine took us out towards Camon.  The day was crisp clean and blue and everything felt fresh again.  
We swung a right past Sibra and down into the valley at Queille, eschewing the mansions of glory for the undergrowth of the old forge and then back onto highway 9 and the foot down to 150 before hitting the town.

I'm too long in the tooth to be Wendy and know a lonely driver when I'm bunched up behind him and leaning, against my will, into the bends.

The hot late afternoon spat us out on the Allée des Soupirs among the pétanque games of the good and glorious of Mirepoix.  

I stuck with my heroes and loved them all the more for their brokenness.  

They won the match.