fellow knees

You can't unring a bell. Just like hunting, he headed off, up and east after he'd reached the top. Heartattack headaches and a bull with a roostercrow in it's belly, not knowing where he'd left it. He'd found his jacket in a coatshop for literally a song (though not his own) in Lost Dog, Arizona, a horrible little burp of a town consisting of a man-made lake, sundry sun-dried shops, a bar not worth a hot bug as far as ambience goes (but with a bartender who made one mean Alaskan Bear-Taunter) and a general sense of shallow, affected ho-hummedry, in that stilled violence kind of way. His hat was a dirty little piece, ugly in style and roped two cars too short in size. He had a cane with a compartment in which you could fit about a gram of gravel or what have you, but he'd left it at home. He'd been walking and scaling and de-scaling in a spanking-new pair of Australian wingtips that had been shot to hell and tossed back. Take off and sling it around, like the blanket. They were just tops now anyway, so it'd have made sense to feed them to the sunset, he supposed. Feet spats. The trousers, however, had held up as good as next day. For the life of all, he couldn't remember where he'd gotten them.
It was a good time to be alive and walking, as good as any time. It was somewhere before now and after before now. He'd started off early and was expecting to finish up or maybe get back late, or early, or at least later than he'd started. Nowhere had there been an unpleasantry or rough patch, if you didn't count all the cities though which he'd passed or all the areas in-between the cities. No time like the right time. He was trailing, now, behind the spot in front of him. His gaze had laid anchor down at his troubled shoes and his mind had been herded to the idea of either tying laces and bindling, or kicking off. A bishop made of key's horses passed by and he looked up.
"Summer: some time we sought it. Heaven's hands and help us if we bought it," dawdled the foldvest, not quite adressing him directly but, you know, addressing him.
"I was looking for an address in a place," he ventured, liming old lyrics from ago chats in the past cities from the weeks and other lengths before.
"Inside or at?"
"Inside, never mind. Say, you wouldn't happened to have an extra shoe or two, would you?"
"What was the address? Or, if it still is, what is it? I've no shoes."
"That's all right," he was dissapointed but forgot he was, "Gorilla and A Peach, Hammerdance...something, oh-two-oh-two. In the west. No, the east. In the east. To the east. East-er than here."
"I live there," hummed the bishop, "We'll go."
"But you were heading south."
"And now I'm heading east."
A hurt bank is better than a lost mile. He headed down after the bishop (who'd gotten about seven legs ahead of him), scared of the words you said. No tanks could take him, though, after the last miles.