Battleship Lost Love Paint Chip Hoagie.

There was always this fleeting sense of moving from a punishing world to a better place. Ducking through the front door, I’d leave the burning day tied to the sappy tree out front, dead locust shells clung to its branches. Inside it was cool and dark and the air was slit open with a turkey knife, stuffed with the scent of beer farts that had traveled f…