Through the dark, I'm flying. The wings stroke slow. And that cool breeze never cools because the air's still hot from the day. I see, and it's something to note because it never gets too dark. The city's glow hangs on the haze, caught in that dreary mist blanket that rolls out from the ocean. The tall, thin alleys are still lit and it's not that black pitch like Santa Cruz. It's a night light. It's a full moon that never wanes. So bright it still leaves shadows in midnight hours. I'm not high so much anymore as I had been, and the dreams come flooding back, and I walk through the day wondering what memories are real now. Is this real? Am I watching these people finish their meal? Talk politenesses to each other as my mind races at what the future holds. Paris. Barcelona. The Old World. A break from this LA daydream. I want to feel alive again. To breath in the air and know it's real, without second-guessing. I want to sleep sound in that welcome dark. To feel the contrast. The differences shouldn't be muddled like this. It's not right. Those gray areas in between. Where the sun hits the horizon and you can't see the line anymore. The shadows in the night. The star-less skies. I've had enough, I think. The hiccup's due. That two week candle burns too slow. It seems so far and yet, all that I've passed by to now is a blur of speed. And the present just never ends. It's all I see. Because I'm twenty-three and nobody knows me, really. Not my parents. My friends, maybe. And the girls haven't a clue. You'd think one ought to by now. I will say this, so that somebody may piece it all together; I can't wait for my skin to once again tingle with adventure; with prospect of paths unknown. To death with this California routine. It's going to taste like cheap port.
