These seperate sundressed paths

My ideal life stands outside the baggage claim at Sea Tac airport. Two bags, make that four, a smile -- reality gets checked into a coat closet and waits to be picked up again on the day we part. Eight dollar cigars, Johnny Cash and dissecting rastafarianism (and feeling rather ras tafar as we do), driving fast, past three hundred miles of street signs, an empty apartment and no plans awaiting us.

It's not that we're oblivious or in denial. We're quite aware we're both broke. But we're always broke. It just doesn't affect us like it affects other people. Our italian bread and cheese, our six dollar wine, sleeping on white sand beaches -- we've learned to live like kings. We may not have much money, but we have imagination, and where you'd bring your expensive wine, we bring exuberance and optimism and incorrigibility. You can't buy us off, because money never made us happy. We make us happy.