God damn the sun

Smoky haze of post-Independence Day hanging in the air with headaches, lethargy, puffy eyes.

Like LA 1989.

Meditating, I went somewhere. I don't always go somewhere.

Often, I stay in the room, listening to the coffee pot grunting and the mini-fridge clicking.

I lose the plot, lose the point.

But sometimes I go somewhere. To the big fish.

Hypnagogia.

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What I’m reading: John Prine (Erin Osmon for 33 1/3)

What I'm listening to: God Damn the Sun (Swans)

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