West

Sometime West is the only answer. But how long can you keep moving till you end up back where you started? Our perspective is distant. When I think of you, it's all snake skin boots, and homemade tattoos, and broken bones, and innocence lost to colorful teenage rebellion. It's the cold north of home. Family secrets forged in alcohol, a death, a stroke, you in a dress, in some nocturnal, bloody, Gothic frenzy. Late night at Denny's, an orgy, or out on the Strip in the lost hours between 9pm and nowhere. A slip of a girl on your hip, a gamine, a Gisele, an ideal prop; a depository. Your powdered wig tucked into your back pocket, searching for Mozart on the sly. It's fun to break windows. To smash the crystal and have them put it on your tab. We may have nothing, but we rejoice in that -- dancing barefoot around the lead vault that is our indestructible, undeniable id. Our fingers on the keys -- ivory, plastic, notes, letters -- not a birthright exactly, something stolen from the primordial sandbox, the genetic lottery won. I accept that it's mine now. It's always been yours. So I look in the mirror, take a deep breath, and righteously declare to myself to "shut the fuck up." Good advice from a friend. Stubborn pragmatist. Renaissance fuck. I am the .04% and tonight I run West. Maybe just a block or two, but never unaware of who we are and what we aren't. Maybe I'll run West till I find myself on your back porch again, having traversed the globe, the physical pain dropping off somewhere around Jerusalem. Wouldn't that be something? I'd be covered in customs stamps -- not pretty. We would laugh about it, have a beer, and then you would walk me to my car.