2001-04-04 || 4:35 p.m.

|| san francisco ||

i don't go to san francisco anymore. hardly ever. i miss it. i miss these: smoking in living rooms. sidewalk perpetually hidden in the shadows of tall buildings. the lady at chef jia's recognizing me when i come in to eat. falling into deep deep sleep on the bart train. riding the bus. trash treasures everywhere: puzzle pieces, postcards, photographs, chinese cigarette boxes. sitting on grass in washington square park. getting lost lost hopelessly predictably. scott. recognizing graffiti as ex-boyfriends. ghosts in the alley ways. public insanity. the rushing rushing of downtown where you can't stop, not on street corners, not in sutter station bar where you've had too many beers and are bending over oh so slightly toward the pool table, making the face that looks quite sexy in the mirror as you shoot the 8 ball, not in montgomery station where really you are very tired and would like to sit but that rushing rushing will just fill your ears and blow around your hair and make you jumpy.

there was a time when i walked to the ocean after a party. in the beginning of daylight. in plaid pants. i fell asleep in the sand and woke up confused by the sight of my black shoes red socks plaid pants against the chopped up blue horizon.

there was a time i didn't mind being stuck in traffic on the bay bridge because i was in kelly's car full of kellymusic and i was in a postcard, a panorama of construction work and alcatraz and horns honking.

there was a time where it was all very enchanting, not so far away, smelling of the sea and something rotting.

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