There are raving cannibals outside, ritualistic type, rolling with the roaring waves, rotten people under the illusion of red canopy boats, chewing the racked bones and all, smeared with greasy rushing blood, they have dead eyes like mine, razor sharp teeth, shark teeth, an old rusting ranch-worn Dodge Ram, dirt roads, red clay and the rough cow pastures of Coweta County, been on every rural back road there is, restless bodies in the royal and riveting pines, the ripe row-boat ponds and resplendent lily pads, swollen rift and full of drifting robotic flies, hordes of rurnt roach-bugs on the rich ramparts of rising red ant hills, the old rusted wells and burned down farm houses, a raven feather in the right and randy cap, welcome to the rueful and repentant South, right or wrong, I'd run.