Indigo Samson (8)

   
   "Indigo Samson (8)"
   
   Samson and Maxie were strolling through the suburban sprawl of it all, and there were many a Chinese restaurant.  Samson didn't like noodles though.  
   Maxie had a volcanic ensemble of humility ornamented upon her nudity; specifically, a simple pair of jeans, tennis shoes, one color, white, and a blue sweatshirt with no logo, her pixie cut not dancing, as Autumn had not yet called in the wind.  Samson was conservative as well, not preppy, not rich man style, looking like a wimpish catalog character, but a gray shirt, jeans, and moccasins, all for comfort and to make sure he could use his reflexes.  Samson possessed photographic reflexes; moreover, the ability to see it done athletically; next, could precisely mimic it.  And he had watched enough football on the tube for all of his life.  Circuses are okay, but not to be imbibed forever.  Plus, if a guy hasn't put on the pads, why does he think he knows about football?  You gotta take a hit to have comprehension.  Experience is useless, unless a situation is met with that exact experience.
   It was getting darker earlier.  Virgo was about to align in mystical fashion, astronomically.  And knowing that you are in the Palm of God's Hand, well, it makes you not want to piss of the Divine Creator.  Fear will turn into knowing you have a father, beyond the themes of a polluted world.
   Maxie blessed herself, and Samson unbound his rich man's lectures, knowing . . .