frisco

going to san fran where the bookshops first published howl. the beat museum beckons.
all these places; the house on the hill where kerouac lived with the cassidy's, big sur where ginsberg ran to get away from the world, harvey milk's hill and the publishers and the gay bars and the vegan coffee shops and the record stores; i'm excited for these most of all.

the clouds float past her face and it's a little like being in love.

blank pages like a couple comfortable in the silence of wind and waves; avoiding the squawking of company that runs shallower.
there is nothing needy about emptiness.
there is nothing ugly about quiet.

byron

the shop on the corner has jewels and silver clinking in the wind until you run your hands through them and the shopkeeper with her one purple dreadlock smiles at you. there is soy and you can make yourself a cup of tea and take off your shoes and watch the seagulls slip over the ridges in the sand; until the sun goes down, and then the tie dye looks as though it's glowing in the twilight, and you can walk home barefoot if you don't mind the rub of sand between your toes.

reading mid life crisis books approximately 15 years too early

"Just as there exists in writing a literal truth and a poetic truth, there also exists in a human being a literal anatomy and a poetic anatomy. One, you can see; one, you cannot. One is made of bones and teeth and flesh; the other is made of energy and memory and faith. But they are both equally true."
- Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love