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.