10.14.17

There are pockets of life for all of us.
The diaspora of lost souls converges
across the globe at places with dim
lighting and bands that play decent
cover songs. Believe me. When the
liquor flows we can all be friends
and each watches the other from across
the room, wishing they were the ones
inebriated by music, drunk with the lust
of life reserved usually for teenagers
and foolhardy citizens whose first time it
is in the city. Let go is the only advice I
can give, which itself was bestowed upon
me in the form of words and the deaths
of several people who I thought would
live forever.

Written at 12:48 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.