My eyes are closed and it’s dark, almost black. My head hurts and I remember falling asleep with the lights on and the record player at full volume.

I woke up to the pops and hisses a few hours later, and am now adjusting to the surroundings of the elevator at 5 AM. The door opens and the brightness of the lobby lights blind me for a second.

The last thing I do before I step out is remember the voices in the room and the clinks of glass and her laughter.

we’ll talk later


To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. – Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 19–28

playing nice


A re-quote of Meditations.
A used up personal improvement.
I could mention Marcus Aurelius,
or maybe even Proust.
But, I haven’t finished Swann’s Way.

I’m driving.
Far and for a long time.
Past the time when the sun sets,
and there are faint gold streaks breaking through the leaves.

There’s a rumbling.
A thunder.
At first thin, in the distance.
However, it builds and grows and howls.

And then a quiet – silence.
Only the engine sound and a memory.
And all that there is contained in the short span of a lovely hello.
I don’t think that I’ll ever return.



I’ve always had a sunny disposition to the streets and the hard angles of the city. The long drives and the even longer goodbyes.

Our Western hearts our broken, and there is nothing that can fix them.

the burbs


Pick up the phone and think. This time carefully.

A text would be easier, but a phone-call isn’t a big deal after a day of skirting around the city, the light etching the hard edges of it into memory.

Stories in mid stride, taking shape, making you whole. And that feeling, lingering and small, sticking more tightly than anything artificial. External.

Now there’s no sun outside the window.

Think. This time carefully and remember the voice and then go.



The future exists when you’re getting ready to expect nothing grand to happen in cheap thrill vehicles that keep moving until the sun comes up on this big-ass desert party.
We don’t sleep, I don’t know why, but I speculate it’s because no one wants to miss the beauty.

We’re drunk with it and no one wants the party to be over.

No one wants to go home.