Trees and especially palm trees are also a part of the eternal cycle of life – who knew. When they are young and sassy, they are often pretty wild palms. Sometimes an old fart from the South rides along and writes a book about them. But when they get elderly and cranky, they lose their juice and finally end up where most of us do – at a cemetery.
Tristes tropiques
Pukeaboo!
I stumbled upon this lost place in the middle of nowhere in Oman, not far from where I don’t exactly remember. The sun was setting, the wind was blowing, the forlornness of the place was palpable. Sadly, tumbleweed was out that day, so that’s a minus.
Mom, I’m hungry!
Hunnnnggggrrrrryyyy!!!
Omnomnomnom
In other(worldly) words, this last resting place, where no palm oil or wine will ever flow again, had a fascinating, almost eerie atmosphere (trying real hard to create a cool mood here, folks). So please pay respect to this memento mori where no palm springs anymore.
This ole house is gettin’ shaky
Puff the Magic Dragon puffs no more
Hello
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