In the year 2000, nothing happened. Just 12 days of rain amidst infinite personality-less sunshine. I came, saw what it did to people, the way it muddled the minds of everyone who couldn't lay flat in the roads and play possum, and decided the desert was no place to plan a fake suicide. Guns, mirrors and death--the hallmark of a college filmmaker. Every night, the streets slick and black, showing promise. I can't breathe here. I can't breathe when I can't see two feet in front of me. I can't breathe when I can feel you watching me and I don't know where you are, why you won't say anything. How can you be so far away, and I can't stop myself from this waiting. Like a 5-minute hallway that gets longer the darker the night gets. In heaven, he was an angel. On earth, he is something else. The lines are drawn only when you believe in lines. And then, who is there to believe in you? They can't hear you anymore when they disappear down the tunnel. Do you believe that? There never was a rabbit. They just wanted to fall in a hole, and searched until one appeared. When our paths meet again in April, will we each be the same person? Does it matter? Everyone is born of a mother and father. And yet... Yet? Yet. Some are also something else. Angels and demons. Sometimes there's very little difference. A good person is not necessarily good for you. A bad person is not necessarily bad for you. It depends on what you need, what you're looking for, whether your eyes are filled with darkness or light. My grandfather gambled away his life and his family's security. And amidst his addiction, when the sickness filled his eyes, he needed to balance it, fill the world around him with the bleeding inside him. When it had him in its grips, that sickness, he wanted to destroy anything that was good, so one night, his pockets less than empty, he took my mother's kitten, just big enough to fit in a young girl's cupped hands, and hurled it onto the ground. It lay on the floor, sputtering and broken, but the girl showed no emotion, her face a mask with burning eyes. She'll never tell you if it lived or died, only that she swore she would never again let the world touch anything inside her and make her feel this way again. She would never own pets, not even fish. She would dream for the next decades of dead kittens floating in fishbowls. She would never be able to trust that love didn't come with a serrated edge.

Dirt. Some kids eat it. They're either not very smart, or bad little fuckers trying to prove a point. If you ask them, they'll never tell you what that point is, only that when they look you in the eyes, you'd better look away. I'll never hit another woman, she said. But I have no qualms about hitting a guy. Sometimes it's in that space between, what someone is running from, where someone is running to, that you discover what is human. The color orange? Goes well with black. Sometimes. Never paint your bedroom yellow, she said. It's a hostile color. But then again, who ever listened to her? Orange is no better of an alternative. Unless you're poor and it's on sale. Then you live with it. And you deal with it. Because life is sure to give you bigger problems than an orange bedroom. Where were you when the call came in? Were you standing up? Were you fully clothed or in whatever you wore to bed the night before? Were there birds singing outside your window? Or did you, like the rest of the universe, already know that your first born was dead? It takes more than 4 minutes to save the world. Sometimes it takes 5. sometimes it takes 5 minutes just to walk to the end of a hallway when the rest of your life is an echo. Numbers tell their own stories in their own literal and sometimes not so literal way. I will ride the number 29 all the way to the moon. Questions are sometimes harder to hear than answers. Just like a father who only drinks when he's secretly thinking about killing himself. You can wish on a star, a plane or a satellite. Or you can just wait until the world gives you something worth wishing for. I am missing someone who won't talk to me, yet every night, he disrupts my dreams. I wonder if I disrupt his. Maybe everyone everywhere is visiting someone else while their bodies stay in the same place. Maybe that's the way it was meant to be. I can not keep a glass of water on my bedstand because inevitably, I will spill it. There is a place in San Diego where you can pay to throw things and break them. They'll sell you dishes, etc and you throw them at a wall and you're allowed to scream anything you want. They market to people going through a break up. You can even bring your own objects, like that porcelain pig he gave you that at first you thought was adorable, but later was a symbol of how much you secretly hated your body. Ask the Germans what they think of memory. Maybe they'll tell you the truth, maybe they'll give you a circle of rhetoric. But one thing they'll tell you...a knee or an elbow is made up of other parts that meet. But in truth, it doesn't even exist except as something that symbolizes the combination of other things that are real. So then, what is reality, but the meeting places of things that are real? In truth, it's just space...nothing you can see or touch. Just floating around us, waiting for interpretation, waiting for things to come about and give it a meaning that's real. Like neighbors. If the only thing that brings you together is geography, then really, what are you to each other? It's sure as hell not the secrets you keep.