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Robert Johnson
B. 5.8.1911 Hazlehurst, Mississippi / D. 8.16.1938 Greenwood, Mississippi
Homicide / Poisoning

You donít come to a crossroads. You hit a crossroads. That is, you hit something which turns out to be a crossroads but at first all you know is youíve stopped.
What do you come to? You come to a fork in the road. You come to adore someone repeatedly.
You stop. You stand in place, you lean against your pack to sleep. Youíre waiting.
You come to certain calls.
Youíve stopped. The future is the obelisk with which youíve just collided in the dark. Itís stunned you.
You come to believe as itís said youíre supposed to.
You canít go on so you stop. You wonít go on. You become involved in a show of resistance, as if you were striking.
You come to tire of bores.
Immobilized in shifting moods, eventually you start to wonder at your whereabouts: as in, Were they planned? Have you reached a destination?
You come to Lousiana with a banjo on your knee, or would.
Weeks pass. The landscape does not move because itís being stubborn.
You come to grips.
How did you wind up in the eyelet of an empty funnel? A retrospective interlude ensues.
You come to momma, come to daddy.
That you were headed nowhere fast had not been clear and even now is not entirely apparent. You had seemed to yourself at the time to be making careful and appropriately solemn choices. Enumerating them consoles you now.
You come to think of it, as you seldom say.
Until the night when you think, Who cares what I think? Who cares if I stop? Can I stop writing? No.
You come to.

Consolation Site: You canít play nothing.

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