9.11, Tuesday night. I run the motor, aware of the sacrifices made. The needle is far past the red line. I have no idea how much time I have, but I know it is not much.
If given the choice, would I have chosen this life?
I have a few very small sips of cheap whiskey left. I drink to forget that I don’t have the money for food. Everything gets erased. Everythig is not so beautiful all of the time, and this fucking sucks. The Whiskey is gone, I still remember that I’m hungry.
I’m at 24th street and San Bruno, in the Mission. Bring me whiskey, or food, or something to cut off the boot. Some wonderful people have bought photos, but that money won’t see my bank account for a few days, and right now, I am in need.
Fuck it all.