San Francisco

There’s something beautiful about the cool evening cloaking herself in the starry indigo.  On the sidewalk corner, a sax warbles, flowing from gnarled fingers. And I on my bike, my dry cleaned garments on the handlebars, soul wobbling, rushing home.

I’m standing at the bus stop. 7:30 and the pink sun blurs.  I’m standing at the bus stop and a piece of my soul breaks off, blurring into the pink sun.  The piece is gone and gone forever.  What’s for dinner? I’ll come home and

Just woke up. Jonesing a cig. Fuck this place. Candice's right calf is exposed, cream under the white duvet.  I’ve been jonesing since I broke the boycott a week ago. Instead, I reach for the laptop. Aimless web browsing is my new nicotine.

She’s into books. Her fingers fumble over one another and she laughs. “I laugh at everything” she says to me.

Two-point-Oh tries to imitate a coffee utopia – a transcendent combination of swagger and finesse.  Large windows, glimmering against the valley sun, open out into a broad plaza.

We didn't get a Christmas tree this year. We strung some lights on our potted palm plant instead, but next year, we're going to have a proper Christmas, with family and candles and everything.