And so the world was ended. Large chunks went spinning off into the blue. (Or black, or dotted, or striped, or whatever the hell you want to say it is).
Standing on the bow of Captain Frank Crescitelli's 25-foot boat, preparing to cast a fly into Jamaica Bay, we expect another hit from a feisty bluefish or burly striped bass.
Though we mostly handled the books only by their covers (or paged briefly through to ascertain that no dunce had striped the pages yellow or pink with a Hi-Liter), we communed deeply with them, felt certain that only we deserved to abide with them.