Who knows what day it is? It’s not even day. The wicked wind chills my back. A deep gray haze fogs my vision. I feel sent here to love her but she won’t let me. I try to express myself outside of the bedroom and it doesn’t seem to reach her. I can’t argue with her, I could if I knew how to play guitar. I don’t have any options as to how I live these days. Not any options I would want. But you can’t always get what you want; the story of my life.
Right now I have so many things trying to trouble me. I should be more concerned about the resurgence of fascism as I predicted in ’96. I should be calling old friends and making new ones. I should be writing and collecting artifacts for my body of work, but instead I sit for hours thinking of her. I should destroy her or our relationship before it destroys me. But, the hopeless romantic in me thinks maybe she’ll come around. Perhaps she’ll wake me with a blow job tomorrow. And monkeys will fly out of my ass.
I wrote that eight years ago about another woman when I lived in New York. Now I'm in San Fran and its like nothing has changed.
"When the past no longer illuminates the future, the spirit walks in darkness."
— Alexis de Tocqueville