There are so many things I want to write about.

• Questions
• Answers
• Reasons
• Me
• You
• Us
• Him
• Her

But, what good would it do me?  This is where my brain turns left, back into the bad neighborhood.

I listen to the junkie under the bridge: “It’ll just make you look like whiney and desperate”.

Head south, down another street.  The hooker on the corner offers little reprieve: “What good will it do you?” she says, while annoyingly popping her gum.

West this time, and a drug pusher leans on a light pole. “Man the fuck up, you cunt”.

North now, and a homeless woman clings to her young daughter. “She needs to hear it, just as bad as you do.  Don’t be afraid, it will all work out.”  I don’t know if I should roll my eyes.  Instead, I roll the window back up, and move on.

Eastbound, I pull up to the crooked cop sitting in his cruiser, cigar smoke fuming out the window. “Convince her to run away with you.  Hand in hand.  Just go.  Leave it all behind”.

I can’t, and she won’t.

Paradox is a mutherfucker.
Love is a whore working overtime.

Everyone wants to go to heaven.
Nobody wants to die.

I turn the car around and head back home.
Park and sit for a while, listening to John Mayer.  After playing the entire “Room For Squares” album, I go to the deck and sit.

Look at the stars and moon, and think of you.