Dear San Diego

The world's a strange place. Don't be a stranger. 
Archive is here.


Dear San Diego,

I'd say something if I had something to say.

I don't though. Out of trying.

I have flashbacks of things.

Summer nights listening to Coltrane on the roof with Parker.

Having to wipe her ass because the drugs fucked up her movement so bad she couldn't.

I think about that. People who shoot shit, snort shit, smoke shit, that make the conscious choice to do it.

Come spend a day on pills that scramble to linebacker your neurotransmitters and see if your recreation's still humorously fun.

She pissed herself once in a bookstore.

I went to try and do something.

She just looked at me with those eyes, the ones that too commonly said "what does it matter?"

Half way through a bottle of vodka today the vodka realized something. I don't really own the building. 

The building owns me.

So I'd say something. But I'm all outta shit to say.