-^-for posterity-^-

the man who fixed my motorcycle was a beautiful man. he was sinewy. he was covered in black grease, like an exotic bird in an oil spill of the coast of alaska.

i walked out of my room the other day and found my motorcycle standing above a giant puddle of gas. i pushed the motorbike, which i recently named 'abe lincoln' down the road until i found a man who could fix it.

he sat down on his hunches and poked around at the engine with a wrench. he decided he would take apart the fuel filter and he did with ease. he laid everything down in a giant pan dotted with innumerable dents and scratches. i stood beside him along side the road watching traffic flow by.

he pulled everything apart using a screwdriver and a wrench. he started to blow on different parts; he blew and then he spit onto the ground. he found the problem, a rubber seal that was not shutting everything down, and walked inside his house.

he emerged from his home with an ancient pair of scissors and a large sheet of thick rubber. he decided he would cut his own rubber seal from the rubber by simply looking at the old one. he did it with ease.

i paid the man about a dollar and drove off. i haven't had a problem with abe lincoln since.