a rainy monday night in los angeles. dark clouds hang low, and as the spotlights over hollywood search for open sky, they catch in the air tendrils of rain and cumulous reaching towards earth, squirming, tornadic tentacles from the heavens.
tomorrow, when the rain stops, the air will be clear, as it was hundreds of years ago.

my teenage years were consumed with love and tears and guitar strings and drunken 3 am huddled meetings with fellow revolutionaries. we were free to plan and huddle together against the cold of winter and the world for, at that point, we had no real place in it or duties to it or at the least did not recognize those ____s that would later reveal themselves.

as a baby i enjoyed music and shiny things, as well as the revolutionary philosophy and road narratives of ernesto guevara.

i was born on the floor.