I needed to get out. Fresh air, solitude, the smallest bit of temporary mental peace. At least, that was what I was hoping for.
If I were Tom Waits, who writes beautifully about it, I could write twenty songs about this neighborhood with all I saw in just a couple of hours tonight.
If I were Charles Bukowski, who lived and was it, I could write ten stories and fifty poems, bringing you into the romance of desperation and crushing it again – making the dirt get under your skin but somehow feel poetic and necessary.
I’m not either of those people, but hell – there is a strange beauty at the bottom.
This, however, is all I’m writing now.