David Lee Rothing the Dickens Out of It

We walk down to the beach, David Lee Roth and I. From the top of a dune, he springs, shooting up, body in flying-V formation as dust rings from the future puff out from under him. He lands a mile off shore and steam rises from the sea, as if the sun itself were drowning. Razor blades rain from the sky, and I know now that David Lee Roth has begun that ephermeral something's endless solo career.