Flat landlocked shithole buried in this Midwest desert in a breathless chamber breaking monotony only with strong shits and bong hits. Reach around the weight of the calling of dirty linens and gin-soaked womens to at least a decade ago and hold in my hands my youth, crystalline variegated polygon of strange hues and bright glitters and shines.

I feel fucked now though let me tell you. The constant factor, this pit that reminds incessantly of the right now and the very right here. Gotta get out of this place before my mind is suffused with the inside air. At least outside there's the real sensations: the sharp smoke and the wind-sting and the loud: the bustling cacophony of hustlers and husks, of you fucking get to feel yourself dying. At least there's that.

Back on the Coast though the anti-desert. Where a great artist pulls the dart from my lips and puts her vulnerabilities to mine. She was all over me. It was enough to make you sick. But this was years ago. But why am I still sick?

Back in the shithole desert, the wind-sting. Too the sting of silence, the stings of being anonymous and ignored. I don't mind the sting of being anonymous. I mind the sting of being ignored.