flea market

I'm at the flea market.

~Be a flea-market seller, not a flea-market buyer.~

It's busy today. Lots of vendors, lots of buyers. My booth - if you can call it that - is slow.

I got here late, sometime after 8 am. I didn't want to get out of bed this morning. The man in bed with me was warm and comforting; the dark morning was cold and uncertain. Somehow, knowing I had to drive further to get to the flea market didn't inspire me to hurry. It seemed to do the opposite instead.

... I just sold my motorcycle helmet. I feel like crying.

They're going to paint my black helmet with camoflague and give it to their kids to play army in. I could have lived without that knowledge. Just as I could have lived without knowing that my motorcycle cover will soon be used as a wheelchair cover.

Selling my gear is painful, in a dead and distant way. Nostalgia doesn't pay the bills, but I wish it did - I would be wealthy.

It's the death of an era.
I won't miss the era, but I do miss the hell out of my old Suzuki.

... The wind and the clouds are picking up. Sitting in the sun is becoming challenging. The crowds are dispersing. Soon it will be time to go.