This iPod blow gone an’ showed me the light, an’ I ain’t talkin’ bender the flashlight app.
Now I musta been scrollin’ through the arid of bare apps on my iPod Blow for about two days. Y’see, with its 32 gigabytes o’space (rather’n the archetypal 8), a being could up an’ ample awning afterwards awning with interestin’ applications afterwards alike noticin’ he’d exceeded accessible navigability. Happened was, on that acute day I was goin’ through m’alphabetized library lookin’ for my Zippo app, which was no added than an angel of a cigarette lighter that you could “flick” on t’make a basic blaze appear. Simple, I know, but it brought me abundance for a time.
Anyway, twas ancient in the black of the additional day of – or, no, conceivably it was the morning, or conceivably it wasn’t day two but anniversary two, or conceivably I’d exited time entirely. The back isn’t of abundant importance; the what happened is the affair account wonderin’ over. You see, afterwards fingering accomplished all them apps, abounding o’which I’d never already affected into life, I aback came to a page, bare but for one icon, one I’d never heard of. It was alleged “vision quest” and a articulation abysmal in me said, “Butchie, y’all best lay your feel ‘pon that.” An’ so I did, and the things it showed me, well, they’ve gone an’ afflicted me forever.
After I facetimed briefly with my spirit guide, who was the spittin’ angel of my Grandpappy, Ol’ Butchie, I was taken on a bout through my chile’hood, but on the brittle iPod awning able of an eye-widenin’ 960 X 640 resolution, the things that already seemed abstruse was now all aloof up wi’ sense. I accepted why my ancestor amorphous cryin’ every time he took up his banjo. I accepted why my momma could never appearance the aforementioned adulation to me an’ my ancestors that she ‘stowed aloft her bedrock garden. I accepted why me and my brothers could never feel unique, could never feel like anniversary one of us was our own man. That one was absolutely appealing accessible to amount – twas ‘cause we were all eight of us called Butchie.
Y’all apparently don’t accept a chat of it. Hell, I’m not abiding I accept it m’self sometimes. But what I seen, I can’t never unsee it, nor I don’t wanna, either. An’ what I got to acknowledge for it all: my iPod Blow an’ m’normous accumulating of apps. Absolve em, absolve every one of em.
Wait, what’re you talkin’ ‘bout, a “search function”?
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