a house on the edge of San Diego, white and empty, cold through the winter.

bicycles hung with hooks on the living room wall, a large blue fish opposite.

a thirty mile walk to the ocean, through the hills of northern california, cigarettes, sandwiches, and poetry in a backpack.

sailing through clean blue water, wearing a jacket, dolphins jumping in the wake.

typhoon saloon, the cat lounge, beachcombers, pac shores, sunshine, hamilton’s, and every other shit-hole we used to go and get drunk at.

climbing into windows, pushing cars in neutral down long winding driveways, cutting the headlights off half a mile away.

theme parties that i hated.

driving miles and miles through the night to say i’m sorry, pick up drunks, clear my head.

relationships working, relationships breaking, lives entwined, and lives unravelled.

living words, drifting through a wood house, caught in a summer breeze flowing through an opened window.

hotels, prisons, bars, airports, train stations, gas stations, bus stops, rest areas, hostels, couches, bathrooms, schools, yards, cemeteries, bedrooms, parks, museums, bridges, boats, and the beach.

seattle, san diego, san francisco, san sebastian, surat thani, shiojiri, madrid.