Saturday, June 30, 2007

getting old

I woke up this morning overwhelmed with grief from the night before. Not as a consequence for anything I actually did, but for not doing anything at all. For sitting on my couch and in front of my computer and staring at the screen, any screen, letting myself be hypnotized by whatever images may flicker in front of my eyes. It isn’t like that isn’t something I do normally, lord knows my mind has been surrendered to the glories of aimless information most every night in the past few years, but last night at had plans. Firm plans. Big plans, even!

One of our labels is in town from Chicago and the owner, a world renowned house DJ who was, admittedly, a considerable influence on my musical style of DJing, was playing at a club in the west village. I spoke to him in the afternoon, as he was checking into a hip union square hotel to prepare for the gig. He plays all over the world, clocking about 5 grand a gig in Europe, 10 grand a gig in Spain, and 15 to 20k for a two-hour set in Japan. He only plays in New York once or twice a year, and its best to catch up with him while he’s here.

So the plan was to meet up with him at midnight, his set was from 1 to 4am, go over some business, discuss our respective professional futures, then head to the bar and get sloppy drunk while he beats down the house for a crowd of inner city twenty something up and comers, our target market demographic.

But I got off from the bar at 11 and then my friend, who was supposed to tag along and keep me company when a boring record came on or the night needed conversational fluffing, called to tell me they were running late. Fair enough, id just catch the DJ for a few minutes before he got on, we could shorten the business and make the night entirely casual, it’s really just the appearance that counts, right?

Suddenly its midnight and I'm leaning on the bar, the third pint of blue moon in my hand, talking about rock climbing videos with one of the regulars. My friend hasn’t called yet and I feel yawns and stretches swelling up inside me. I cut the conversation short and head home, figuring ill call my friend when I get there and we’ll meet up in front of the club at 1am, any interaction between the label and I limited to a handshake from opposite sides of the booth, but still my face is shown and I get to here some rough beats and have a few drinks outside of the bar I work in.

I called my friend and, as I feared, he finds the first opportunity to bail on our plans and seizes it with fierce determination. I didn’t even put up that much of an argument, I well understood. It was late. It was too late. We had missed the window; there was nothing we could do. It was 1am, going all the way to Manhattan for 2 hours of drinking and loud music no longer seemed inviting. The child in us had long been exhausted, and the adults we are were clearly diminished for the evening.

So I text messaged the DJ (taking the most passive route of communication) and told him I wouldn’t make it. I thanked him for putting me on the guest list. For validating my position in the music industry with an affirmative nod of recognition. Then, almost sarcastically, asked him what he was doing the next day. It was a feeble attempt at letting him know I really wanted to be there, but for a myriad of reasons completely beyond my mere human control, could not wrangle up the freedom to see him that night. A cowardly pack of lies on my part, but I'm not above that sort of shit.

So what did I do after? Instead of going out to a cool Manhattan club and frolicking with the cities nightlife elite? I smoked weed and played video games. Then when it got really late I ate a microwave burrito while watching tivoed episodes of King of Queens. In other words, I tossed out a chance to hang out with one of the world finest electronic acts, who actually wanted me to hang out with him, who had no problems sharing with me a exclusive glimpse into the lifestyle of the superstar DJ, a life I so desperately aspired to when I was young and howling my dreams above the city traffic, a life I felt I needed to lead, the life I thought I was destined for. Free liquor and club worship. The best drugs and hotel rooms. Sleeping until 2 in the afternoon. 2 in the afternoon! I was built for that lifestyle. And he was going to let me taste it!

Ahh, what a douche I am! What a jerk! An idiot! Lazy! Slothful! A fool! I woke up to these feelings. The feeling of regret. Of feeling that a part of your life has been wasted. Lost. What do I do all this for if I can’t reap the rewards?

So I gave the DJ a call and left a message explaining again in vague details, how I wish I could have made it but you know, what can I do, I just got so busy! Then I asked if he wanted to meet later and left my phone number, which I know he has already, to reinforce the grave urgency of our meeting. Then I walked to the coffee shop and got a large Jasmine Pearl tea and sat on the stoop sipping it while the sun washed away that icky sensation of regret and shame. Then I did my laundry and decided to write this.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Life Is Wonderful

Its 3:40 am and I'm in my office typing up words and listening to the cars rush by my open window. Huge trucks filled with garbage post across the street and their mechanized crunches whine into the dark morning. A black Lincoln, the standard vehicle in Brooklyn's curiously casual, yet entirely unique taxi service, waits in front of a four story walk up, letting its engine idle, playing the slow hum of urban silence. It doesn’t honk its horn, it just waits. Another car smashes by. There are voices. Someone laughs. I look outside my window but don’t see anybody on the street. The black Lincoln rolls away slowly, then speeds up and then is gone. I wonder what happened there? Maybe he was impatient. Maybe they took too long. Maybe he wasn’t waiting at all.

I roll up a cigarette and wonder where everyone is headed. Then I open another Newcastle beer and light a stick of incense. The cigarette is rolled tightly and the smoke curls up and drags in the air. The tail of it pokes my eye and I wince and cough and feel a tear swell up then fall. I take another pull. I wonder about one of the regulars at the bar who is writing a novel and likes to be bitter and mean. He acts as if he is the dead blade of grass beneath the huge pile of shit that is our very existence. As if he has figured out life, and found it not worth making a fuss over. I wonder if he is awake right now.

He is well read and has charming salt and pepper hair and he drinks Belgium wheat beer and prefers that it be poured like over there, with about an inch of head. He said, one night, while well sunk in jim beam shots and hoegaarden pints, that he would happily nuke the world, himself and five year old son included, if it would put an end to the catastrophe that is todays state. I wonder if he remembers that night and I wonder if he sees how stupid that idea was.

What an idiot.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

live in paris - 2001

something to watch while im napping.

Monday, June 25, 2007

nada mucho

i dont really have much to say. i just kinda want to write. there are words in me that need to form a sequence of sentences. what these sentences may read has yet to be determined, but they are there to be made, and here in lies the issue. ive got every part to the engine, but i dont know how to build it. i want to say something, but i dont have anything to say.

maybe i should write about that girl that got her feet cut off while riding a roller coaster. someone explained to me that it was a faulty wire that got loose and whipped across her ankles, cleanly slicing her achilles, and that her feet fell right off. they had to have a crew search the grounds for her amputated appendages. it wasnt said how long it took, and it was unclear if they were re-attached. so i couldnt really write too much about that, but i could go into detail about the possible circumstance, delving deep into my vocabulary (or more accurately, digging deep into the thesaurus section of to describe the faces of those sitting next to her, when they realized upon the end of the ride that the girl next to them wasnt screaming in horror at the 3 story drop her superman themed roller coaster cart fell from, but the fact that during the fall, her fucking feet were cut off by a god damned faulty wire.

but that seems so trivial. a waste of syllables. wouldnt it?

i could write about the dog outside the bar. the one that sat there behind i small gate and looked up at us with long, frightened eyes. it was a pit bull. it had big paws, jose said that meant it was young. a pup. it laid there in the night, on a patch of grass, not moving. we called for it, hesitantly stretching our hands out to it, kissing the air, our voices high and nonthreatening. it just lay and stared. unmoved. it was a boy. his ears were back, jose said that meant it was afraid and also that it wasnt aggressive. someone brought it a bowl of water and we left to the bar and i poured us all a shot and we moaned for the pup. we worried for him. no, i wont write about that, not now. i'll write about that later. that deserves some time.

i could write about the party i went to. the one that i didnt get home from until 7am. yeah, i could write about that. there were those guys that tried to barge in, 3 black guys from the block. i wasnt there when it happened, i had gone to another party to pick up my friend, but when i got back i was told all about it. these guys were "thugs" and one of them, "started acting crazy," because apparently he had grown up in the neighborhood and felt that, as a neighbor, he should be allowed to come to the party. i guess it didnt really go anywhere, though there was soem subtle racism that i would try to explore. but that would take time, thought, etc. nah, i wont write about that.

huh. i guess i dont have anything to right about. man. that sucks. oh well.

Friday, June 22, 2007

the dilemma

when it rains my friends, when it rains...

on august 9th the beastie boys are playing at Mccarren Pool in Brooklyn. it will be the first time they have played brooklyn in 20 years, which is weird considering they have a song called "No Sleep till Brooklyn," and their last album was titled "To the 5 Buroughs," of which brooklyn is one of them. they play summer stage in central park the day before, but that is in manhattan and summer stage isnt the best venue to see a group as big as the beasties, so that option isnt that attractive. Mccarren pool has good sound, its not to big, and the stage is set up so that whereever you are in the place you can clearly view the act. i saw Bloc Party there last summer and although the show its self wasnt life affirming, the sound was good and i liked the atmosphere.

it is pretty safe to assume that, with the catalog the beasties have and their experience playing shows, the beastie boys concert will be nothing less than a memorable event. i can think of 10 songs of theirs from off the top of my head that would cause an absolute losing of the shit from me. im sure within the first 2 bars of "So Whatcha Want," i would need a change of pants.

we have tickets for the sold out beastie boys show. we are excited to be going. the doors open at 5:30. according to the website, there are no opening acts.

on august 9th daft punk are playing at key span park in brooklyn. it will be the first time ever they have played in brooklyn, and is quite possibly their last tour. from everything ive heard, daft punk play a jaw dropping show. there are plenty of clips on the web that attest to these praises. just watching some of them make me feel as if i'm 19 years old on 3 hits of ecstasy.

we do not have tickets for the daft punk show. but i am debating getting some. the doors open at 7:00. according to the website, there are 3 opening acts [all good, but none that i am desperate to see]. i think i can assume they will go on at 10:30 or 11.

why these shows were booked on the same day will remain a mystery to me, but i think i am going to try to make them both. it is doable. we have the technology. its going to be a marathon concert day for lil ol me, but im ready for it. im prepared to chug.

thing is, am i being to optimistic? will i be wasting money on a ticket to a show i wont be able to see? i have debated this in my head for hours on end and have concluded that there is no way i can miss either gig. but my own naive certainty aside, is it even possible. we shall see...

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

the process

some friends of mine are getting a divorce. it is curiously devoid of any bitterness or resentment, actually, it appears that they are having a good time with it. they have just realized that they have different agendas in life, and different ideas of what the future should hold, so amicably decided that it best they end their marriage instead of living in a relationship that would ultimately be a burden on their lives. they have even planned a "divorceymoon" to Rome. so this is the final days of their marriage, love, friendship, sex, and travel. bravo to them.

but i fear this may be only an attempt to avoid the crushing truth of their circumstance. they still love and respect each other. they are still best friends. and soon this will all be gone. loss, the cousin of love and death, is the cruelest element of consciousness. the emptiness left is sometimes harder to bear than the pain of presence. it hurts. it does. and i know its hard to face. i wish them the best of luck. they are really my closest and intimate friends. sometimes i feel im taking it harder than they are.

this all brought to light something ive been mulling over myself the last few days. how i handle pain loss and confusion. for all my years on earth, or at least the ones i could intellectually consider, when i have suffered through some difficult internal conflict i have folded into myself. lost in my thoughts and feelings, hidden by the blank stare on my face. i usually hide and lick my wounds. i dont answer the phone. i ignore when the doorbell rings. i avoid the internet and the television and the sounds that rise from the city, as if they are all the source of my burden, as if they are the reason of my hardships. and sometimes they are. but most times, its just me.

what i thought i was doing was working out the problems in my head. and to an extent, maybe i was. but really, what ive realized, is i was letting time bury the problems. i was allowing the pain to be suppressed. forgotten. i still do this. i have no other methods to process agony. i can only wait it out. its just me. it isnt healthy. but its me. and i never have claimed to be healthy.

i only hope that when it does come, the discomfort of loneliness, the heartache and grief of loss, that my friend knows i am there for him. or her. that they are aware i will try to understand and i will not judge. i will let them cry. we all need to cry sometimes. this post is pretty lame. but ive decided to try "posting every day" again, so whatever. go suppress your rage elsewhere.

Monday, June 18, 2007


we decided to go to coney island yesterday. it was an easy decision when we made it. the sun held high and the breeze was cool enough so as you hardly even noticed it. we took her vespa, me on the back. i wore the half helmet which has no face covering. if we would have crashed id probably have needed cosmetic surgery. i dont have health insurance at the moment, so it would have taken a while to get done. in the interim, i could have been a monster. the kind children cry at when they see. features mangled, skin hanging where it shouldnt. lips that dangle and eyes that cross. parents would point and say, -see, thats what happens when you dont wear a helmet. a walking public service announcement for two wheeled motor vehicle safety.

-but i was wearing a helmet, i would groan inaudibly, through my shattered jaw with half torn tongue, -it was a half helmet, there was no face covering! no one would understand though. a crippled man goes on unheard. fortunately we made it to the boardwalk with all obstacles hurdled. the wind had picked up a bit but the sky was still blue.

we parked a block up from the beach, in between two sedans, one american, one not. or maybe they both wore. or maybe neither of them. i forget. it doesnt matter. we crossed the boardwalk, its wooden planks creaking beneath our flip flops. the water swelled and burst and crashed and we smelled the salt in the wet air. we took off our sandals and walked along the sand towards the creeping surf. one lone teenage boy stood in the ocean, letting the waves rush against his knees then slide back under him, towing against his heels. an older couple passed us and the woman had a russian accent and her top was tied curiously, so that her breast seemed strangled, yet hung loosely to the side. there was a tent. -who brings a tent to the beach? i asked. she smiled and shrugged her shoulders, the boy in the ocean was shivering, he leaned forward and let a wave smash against his arms and stomach. -lets ride the cyclone, she said.

we walked towards the roller coaster. it towered above the boardwalk, you could see it for miles. when we got there it cost six dollars a person and the guy that took our tickets looked like he was going to fall asleep. he must have been in his seventies. i wondered how long he'd worked there. she said, -my friend rode this last week and she threw her neck out, and we both laughed and recognized the rickety sound of the structure as it rattled overhead. when the cars arrived we sat in the middle and we look at each other and grit our teeth and moan in an insufferable anticipation.

it climbed to the top of the first drop and we could see the ocean and the boardwalk and Astroland and the beach and i looked for the boy but didnt see him and she pointed towards the sand and said, -look, you can see the broken glass reflecting from the sun. then we fell and i pushed myself against the metal bar provided and screamed as we shook and tumbled in our seats. when we started to rise again i felt a strain in the middle of my back and said -ow! and cursed a few times. then we were rising and falling again. and rising and falling some more. i could feel my neck and shoulders break from the tension. when the ride is finally over and we climbed from the cars i was holding my neck and grimacing. -shit, i said, fuck! she looked up at me and i blushed. -i think i fucked up my neck.

i saw bad weather crawling in the sky so suggested we go home after the ride. we had a beer first though. and i played a few video games. but by the time i was stretching up and over the back seat of the scooter the rain had starting to come down. my neck, at this point, is so stiff i can hardly move. i turn to see things like frankenstein, twisting my entire upper body to look to my side. drops of water were pelting our chest, soaking our tank tops and drenching our legs. our exposed toes pruned in the downpour. we raced beneath the cruel weather, soaking ourselves through each block and at every stop sign and red light. the sun was an approachable beacon in the distance. it was right there, above our home, we could see and feel it.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

The Hulk's livejournal

i stumbled across The Hulk's livejournal today. i found it was simple, yet very revealing. of course, i wont link it, seeing as id hate for The Hulk's technorati to find me and suffer the wrath one endures when invading The Hulk's privacy. from what i understand, he has anger issues. i will though, copy and paste some of his entries here. i think you'll find them quite insightful to the mythological man beneath the green skin.

January 17th, 2007:



February 13th, 2007:



April 7th, 2007:



June 2nd, 2007:



you can see why i'd refrain from linking him. he has a penchant for smashing that i dont get down with. im even afraid to post most of his entries. i'd hate for him to google "no know what do," find my site and then, with enough diligence, find me. he's a very complex character. violent too. doesnt come across as too smart though. anyway, when i found them (which i'd advise, for your safety, you try not to do), it struck me as something interesting to post, even though its skirting a terminal course (oh the risk i take for you, dear reader!). i hope you enjoy it.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

internet trouble

Fucking hell. The internet is acting up on me again. It seems to be clogged. Like a toilet. The pages aren’t loading, they are in perpetual refresh. Its stuck. Its dry heaving. It looks like it hurts.

So I'm off to Office Word to spin my mental wheels in a self correcting document, Microsoft style. There will be no spelling mistakes here, dear readers, i've got an editor, an electronic one, a computer even! So you can feel safe, youre in good hands. Not that I still wont find some way to fail you.

Anyway, so yeah, internet… uh, this is about it. what ya see is what ya get. You got a black background and some words (I think they’re white, or maybe a soft bluish color) and some pictures. There are some stories with an end and some jokes with a punchline (sometimes funny, sometimes meh) and some random comments about all whatever the fuck. I put some highlights up for you on the side, because I know sometimes its tedious to keep mining a cave with limited gold. I felt that was pretty generous of me, but truthfully, its just very vain.

I guess I can get pretty self deprecating, but you probably already caught on to that (youre not slow, your quick. Its obvious. Especially if youre reading this paragraph here. then that would imply not only are you quick, but youre very focused and patient. It takes a special sort of composure to wait through the first 100 words of a self serving post,. A certain endurance that I don’t have. Bravo to you, dear reader! I applaud your stamina!) sure, id agree that i house a certain degree of self loathing –it probably stems from my childhood issues, particularly, being raised by a schizophrenic mother (look out below, it’s another cry for help!) - but I find it fits into a modern mindset, so don’t consider myself embarrassed or troubled by it. hey, all the cool kids hate themselves. You want to be cool, don’t you?

In any case, the internet is working now. be cool breeze.

Friday, June 08, 2007


One of the regulars had a small going away party at the bar tonight. She is moving back to California to continue on in her schooling. She is from there, the Bay Area, Oakland, to be exact. She has a soft round face that is at once pretty and homely, and a thin frame with a pot belly that has been ignored so long it screams out for attention. She has a slow drawl to everything she does. From her walk to her talk to the way she picks up a shot glass. Her entire manner is casual, criminally so. its as if her bones are slurring, and shes just working with it. it disarms you, especially when you have an actual conversation with her.

She is incredibly clever. And not just in a quick witted sense. She can spar with any douchebag intellectual about politics, art, or whatever unenlightened issue that The Post is offering on society. She plays the violin in a freeform jazz-rock outfit and strikes the strings with a divine fury behind a scribbled sign reading: WELCOME HECKLERS. She teaches to kids in the public school system. After work she comes through and has a pint or a glass of the house white wine.

So when I lowered the music and yelled out LAST CALL no one even stirred because she was still drinking and there would be no moves made until she had her last sip.

I didn’t get out until 3.30 this morning. I walked past the avenues, on the way to the palace, stepping on every crack in the sidewalk trying to find the right curse to live by. Trying to find the right luck to change. the trees hung large and looming and the streetlamps burned through their leaves and the shadows struck up from the blackness of the asphalt. the cars smashed by quietly. The city dulled into a low roar.

When I got to the kitchen and opened the fridge all the beer had been drunken and the wine bottles emptied. So I grabbed my keys and headed back out the door. To grab a six pack and listen to the traffic some more. on the way down a girl in a tight black dress stood in front of a taller girl in a tight brown dress and said to her –but you have to understand. The girl in the tight brown dress said the word no over and over again. She kept repeating it, like a mantra. The girl in the tight black dress sighed and put her hand to her forehead. I don’t know what was going on, but their plan, whatever it may have been, had come apart at the seams. I kept walking right past them, unconcerned.

The store was drenched in a florescent glow. I shielded my eyes upon entering. After I found my brand of brew, a subtle Belgian white called Blue Moon, I made my way to the counter. The guy on the other side asked me how things were going and I smiled and said things were casual and placed a ten on the countertop. He grined and grabbed the beer and before I left said, -man, you smell like that good shit, and held out his fist which I touched with my own, then I headed back to the palace to write this and get some sleep.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

i was looking outside my window and across the street a woman was riding her bike. she was going up the block, towards the park. she was on her cell phone.

she tried to make a turn and took a nasty spill. her bike crumbled beneath her, i think she landed on her peddles. i winced when i saw it. i said aloud -ouch! but here is the kicker, the entire time she stayed on her cell phone. she kept the phone to her ear. she never even stopped talking.

even as she lay there, scraped up, crumpled into a ball on her bike, she held the phone to her ear and kept talking. that must have been one important conversation.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

running out of it

The first punch comes as a surprise. Not because I don’t deserve it but because I didn’t think he would do it. I had, in fact, fooled myself into thinking that he simply couldn’t do it, so when he actually does, and I feel his knuckles strike fast and wildly against my cheek, not fully connecting like I'm sure he wanted, but more just roughly sliding against the skin beneath my ear, I whirl my head around every which way, looking to see if anyone else saw.

There is nobody else though, just me and two cops. One plain clothes and one in uniform. Then there are trees, small and in cages, and some abandon shopping carts, leaned against the wall.

When the second punch hits, my face is pushed to the side and I can see the walls of the alley and how much graffiti is on them; there is a lot. Most of it is gang names written in old English lettering but I don’t have time to read them because a third punch is delivered, an uppercut to my nose, and my face is pushed back up so that it’s in front of his, facing him.

His hand squeezes my arm, his fingernails pinch into my bicep. For the first time I realize he is Asian and although pretty stocky, a bit shorter than me. His eye is bruised and swelling from when Michael hit him and looking into it, seeing past the darkness of the wound into his half closed eye, the memories of what has been done rush through me in a shiver like a foul scent or a sour taste.

Michael hit him and then he ran. Michael is the fastest person I know. They tried to give chase, the plainclothes cops, while the guy in uniform quickly put the handcuffs on me, but I watched as Michaels legs leapt forward like a gazelles, in long even strides, and before they even knew it a canyon of city street was the distance between them. They’d all disappeared into the night for a minute but then he had come back, the short, stocky Asian cop, and his eye was black and he was out of breath. It looked like Michael had gotten away.

The idea of this releases a brief exhale of releif in me but then I am hit again, this time in the temple, and a flash of white burst in my head and a high pitched ring screeches through my skull. The smell of piss and old alcohol wafts up to my nose and when I open my eyes I can see shards of glass and cigarette butts on the ground. I'm shoved against the car and the handcuffs are bent further into themselves, tightening on my wrist so much that I can barely feel my fingertips. I try wiggling my fingers while keeping my eyes towards the ground, focusing on the uniformed cops oddly shiny shoes and the flickering shine of a streetlamp reflecting in their tips. I feel like spitting but don’t, I swallow instead and it taste metallic and thin. I see from the tops of my eyes, all the way on the other side of the alley, a cat licking his paws, ignoring us. I’m wondering who that cat belongs too when I see a drop of blood and for a moment I regret it all.

I regret the whole night. I regret coming to a city I’ve never been to and having someone buy us alcohol. I regret drinking the alcohol behind a dumpster in an alley. I regret not running when the cops came and I regret being bold and obnoxious and rebellious when they searched us. I regret smiling and gasping when I saw Michael run, even though it was probably just my nerves that did it, because those cops were surely going to break his arm and his back was against the wall. There was nothing else he could have done. I regret not telling my mother where I was going, and I'm reminded of her look of indifference when I left the house. Then I’m done with regret.

Another blow falls heavily and crushes my jaw and I fall to one knee, not saying a word. The handcuffs I'm wearing squeeze against my wrist and it occurs to me that I’m in the worst situation I could possibly be in. In a dark alley in a foreign city, with the only person who knows where I am off and running, being chased by the police.

When the last blow hits I just absorb it, saying nothing, and wonder if any of this will be on the news. The door to the cop car is opened and they lift me by my arms and toss me onto the back seat, closing the door behind me. There are no door handles on the insides of cop cars, so I just push up to the window and look outside as they begin driving away. When we turn from the alley blue and red cop lights paint the intersection, they have the whole street blocked off. I wipe blood from my nose onto my shirt collar and I hope and will Michael, with everything I have, to run fast, as fast and as far as he possibly can.


That story is true, it happened when i was fifteen. the reason i wrote it is because some strange sensations of dread have been overwhelming me lately. I'm think I'm running out of optimism. It started with a dull emptiness in my stomach. There was no pain, no pangs of worry, just a slow deflation inside my core. It was a whisper, not a roar, and I hardly felt it. then it pushed up and out through my shoulders then down my arm in small, patient movements, towards my palms and then fingertips; like a cold anesthesia spreading through my veins. it was soft and unnoticeable and suddenly I was drained of it. well, most of it. I'm right here in my office type type type and I'm on a bar stool throwing back another shot and I'm on a subway platform and there is train on its way and a sliver in all that is meant just for me. it must be. it has to be. It is. So I keep telling myself, over and over again, I know I haven’t hit rock bottom yet, because I can still find some reason and poetry inside the glass.
Creative Commons License
:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at