A wise man once said, "Let's get right to the heart of this thing." The only clear mission in an excursion such as this, is to blast through as much pavement, brick and keg line as you can endure! To the stout of heart go the spoils of brewery tourism. We took the high road one afternoon by going the out of town way...A sudden Dachau on the prairie's edge. But little did they know, we had Barret's own privateers in the wagon and a crossbar Marx to guide us. The quest took its first coffin nail at the crowbar, allowing for inscriptions on our black tomes with dark speech.
Our intent was clear from the get-go, lay the hogs on the blacktop and spin toward pandemonium. It took a day atleast to get out of the wagon and onto the saddle before our designated nighttime sendoff station became second nature. 
The only secured contacts we'd established before takeoff took some greasing before we could speak a shared tongue. Rapping specs and quaffing thimblefuls. We found the old boys in town to be the fathers of a better time and a better ceremony. Stinking of citrus and grass and brimming with futures bigger than our prestige, we decided to ride the wet whistle express down the drag until faces and spaces and solar places played games on the backdrop till curtain call.
Taking in what we could gather each daybreak, we lived nomadic on a trail of snakes, hot jazz and black curbside peril. The blue god had beckoned us since first we angled downhill from the muddy waters of the Assiniboine. Winding and winding, frenzied by the possibility of beginning anew, we posted all points north and sailed the yellow-blazed byway. Lucid stories of night terror and bookshelf gargoyles came second nature or the nature of our existence, decidedly we promised to smother the other if expressions became a science. Reaching the blue god meant feeling it, weighing how our bodies would contort on its tiled face. 
The blue god had seen itself through crevices and craters uninhabited for an epoch. What the flying dragons couldn't teach, we learned in the rocks which jutted under hand and secured to foot. Our boats still made sail, the crew still jilted astern, the sails still flapped in the angry screeches of emergency to take hold of a voyage all its own.
Making landfall on the back of a leviathan is like describing an oasis, its beauty is as palpable as imagination. We took refuge in one, two, three galleys of measurable difference only to post up at the last show in ghost harbor. After wearing the day thin with sand, settlement, and circulation we answered with certainty to the beckoning of something more momentary than home.
Before the quest would end, we knew the bruise would burst. Spilling into the night, the hopes and the dreams of lesser men made paving stones for our banner charge. Joints and gears, sinew and rubber, tendons and cable, what came undone would fall into rank and forge anew. With this and that we left the east and began the rest. Never has the morning smelled so sweet, nigh has the sun blazed so proud, long has the promise of perfect provisions lay just on the horizon. Goodbye my home, goodbye my land, hello to lady luck with whom we now stand.
