clear and now

(Verse 1)
on the look out for my sails
sheets of white green catchin' me
when I can't work out, I bail
seeking new waters and promising,

myself...

will remember my home
I could never forget tracks that ran
along
marshes with cats nine-tails
pine scented, turning dappled trails

along

(Pre-Chorus 1)

So find a balance

between bright electric sunsets
and twisted metal wires

this age must deal with it
it's a flourishing art-form
in an information sandstorm

(Verse 2)
can't remember all my home
there were burdened boughs
whiteout grounds of stone
I've forgotten keyhill road
I've forgotten sun that shot in through my room
black and laying on the road
hours passed we'd never see a soul
and that dome of bright stars...

(Pre-chorus 2)
So find a balance:
between bright electric sunsets
and twisted metal wires

and drape your soul all in it
edge out a simple love,

Chorus
you're helping me find my
faith in these interlocking growths
I don't even know you
your skin is my childhood snow
hoping to have you
hoping you will have me too

just let our eyes meet
my home is mixing with your blue

hoping you'll take me
back to the soil I sprung from

I'm hoping you'll make me
all at home with in both your arms

Poetry pad.

Check out my livejournal.

I'm resurrecting it as a place for quick poems.

enjoy.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/dnabean/

Card

Nothing is more sacred than that time spend with a family spends with each other, all seated around the dinner table.
No less precious is the time a family spends during the holiday season.

Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this: your precious, sacred time.

Christmas Eve

This is my second Christmas away from home. I am twenty-five years old. People are taking longer to find their places in this big world of ours. I guess I should take my time. I guess I've got some time.

My first Christmas away from home was with Samantha in Great Neck. It was an interesting experience: a small (well, small for Long island), mostly jewish town for this holiday. Shops were open for Christmas Eve and shut for the Sabbath. To give Peter, Etty and Samantha the full representation of that the most high of Christian holidays, I decided to buy them all stockings, decorate them and put the usual assortment of goodies my family has in our stockings. They seem to enjoy it on some level. They ate some of the candy and cooed at the miniature cans of shaving cream and mouth wash. They humored me, and I will always be fond of them for that.

I am at the Potter's (and Marshall's) for the Christmas stretch this year. Binks' family is decidedly more alike my family than Samantha's. They are white and half from New England and generally very nice. I will say, there is a MAJOR difference between my family and the Potters': we are MUCH louder. Not as loud as the Turks, but loud.

Homesickness is really setting in. I particularly regret coming out west before the holiday season. I was a fool to think my coming out as soon as possible was going to result in timely employment. No one is going to get back to me before the 2nd of January, by which time I will have spend enough money for me to actually acquire a place in SF.

And I'm being lazy; lazy like I was in high school. It is amazing how much I think about this strange personality trait of mine, putting, in affect, more energy into worrying than actually curbing the problem with fruitful action. Whenever I know I'm backsliding, I'll have this dream. This dream comes in many different forms, having many different scenarios and characters, but the underlying resonance or regret i feel when I wake is exactly the same. I'm behind. I've missed many, many classes. I'm always confused by this news; it is shocking. i wonder how I could possibility catch up, gain lost ground. Consistence and even more strenuous work is required of me. I can not -- I'm really sick of these dreams.

Music

Science

Art

People

Health

Relax... there is nothing to achieve.

Obsessed with life.

Merry Christmas

3x5

I'm writing you to
catch you up on places I've been
You held this letter
probably got excited, but there's nothing else inside it
didn't have a camera by my side this time
hopping I would see the world with both my eyes
maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm
in the mood to lose my way with words

Today skies are painted colors of a cowboy's cliche'
And strange how clouds that look like mountains in the sky
are next to mountains anyway
Didn't have a camera by my side this time
Hoping I would see the world with both my eyes
Maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm
in the mood to lose my way
but let me say

You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes
it brought me back to life
You'll be with me next time I go outside
just no more 3x5's Guess you had to be there
Guess you had to be with me Today I finally overcame
tryin' to fit the world inside a picture frame

Maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm in the mood to
lose my way but let me say
You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes
it brought me back to life
You'll be with me next time I go outside
no more 3x5's
just no more 3x5's

Quicky

Ok... I don't have much time, but I said that I would start up dating this thing because I finally have some interesting, non-personal shit to say.

I'm in Hollywood. Last night I got here at 11pm. I'd been traveling (mostly waiting in Airports) for going on 14 hours. So, as you, can imagine, I was quite happy to see Mark's car pull up to the curb at long beach airport, where I arrived.

It was so surreal to step off the plane and not be instantly freezing my ass off. I love the weather here because it is so different from New England's and so consistent. What don't like, straight off, is the pollution. I noticed as I was waiting for Mark in Long Beach. Cigarette and Cigar smoke seemed to be everywhere and that mixed with the noxious gas and diesel fumes from cars and buses.

Mark and I drove to LAX to get Ally. The place, aside from being massive, is also interestingly designed. As we drove into the airport circle that connects all the gates, large columns rose from the ground in a random formation on either side. Things seem to be genuinely and thoughtfully designed; a mix of contemporary with classical. It's really gaudy in some places (esp. when classical stuff is under lit with colored lights) but most often it is interesting and fun to look at.

It was good to see Ally - gave her a crushing hug.

So I am here, and that's all I know. I love you New England, but I've got to go. I've gotta see if I can make it out here on my own. See if this world's an ocean on which we float alone.

4 years to the day

those are the shoes I remember
pink in the lace and flesh
both wrapped around me

that is the spirit I remember
pink in the positive and flesh
both are now within me

Dance and sing
Dance and sing

all your reservation amount to nothing
all your love conceived my future

Let me go and I will dance, I will sing

Staining it to a dark stream

in a dark forest runs a white stream

in dark wood runs a stream splitting crystal beams

you and I, we use to sit near the stream

we would kneel near the nape of the bank

taking draughts together until clean inside

take handfuls and cleansing our outsides

and the purity of the water was never in doubt

sweet and cold and clear and...

habitable to agreeable organisms

In the dark wood I slew a deer

that day you found the carrion

you found the crows pulling sinew

you took the entrails, and out of spite

for you hate the natural order

for you loath my murderous spirit

you took them down to the banks

you threw them into the white

into the crystal splitting running

into a place upstream

devilish and deceitfully cryptic

Now no beautiful thing is borne

from the running clear, and not drinking

are all the beautiful ones once cleansed

by crystal split beams

the stream is as dark

as the stream falling from your head

spilling on to your shoulders

running black brown, your back down

I hate computers

I wrote something with all my heart.

but I lost it. And no longer have the energy to write it again.

I seem to have no energy. enough to breath and eat. maybe enough to lift my head.

there are bigger problems on the horizon.

Cause I've got to put something to something.

and I don't know how.

Never going to be

"I'm all at sea. Where no one can bother me. I drink by myself. I sleep on my own."

I want you to know that this is for you and only you. You are so beautiful. I'm never going to be the absolute. The doubts will set in and they will set to whispering. You and I, just another thing I'm getting over, until it is time to resume puzzeling on myself again.

[Started with marble.
Tall and cubic and white.
Pure.]

It started with stone.
It ends with you, there, alone.

He takes up his chisle and hammer.
this task for worship, for glammour.

The marble doesn't flake.
Nor does it smooth your shape.

He sweats with his toil.
his face gritty and soiled.

the marble resembles a form.
he smooths it, wishing it warm.

And when she is done.
the pining only begun.

"This way I can have you only.
This way you will stave me only.
This way you will be,
Forever: Pure, cold, with me."

its offical, confusion and the meaning of life

This is what I'm going to be seeing for the next 1.5 years. I've (Ally and I) made it official. I am referring to my spontaineous move to the Bay area, to San Francisco. Excitement does quite emcompass what I feel right now. It's that uncomfortable, urgent emotion. You know when you are hiking a trail for the first time, the feeling that surrounds your minds as you plod along, every step falling on new ground.

I had dinner with Don at Flatbread. We had an amazing conversation, as usual. This time the subjects were death, purpose, our place in this world as Americans, which I find disturbing, confusing and frustrating, respectively. He gets me and if I have a choice in the matter - I most certainly do - I would choose to be as open, fresh and energetic as he is at his age. Don is an inspiration and a source of faith for me. Faith in my fellow man, this needs a refresh once-in-awhile. Don is that refresh.

Last night I was confronted and held accountable for something I said to a dear and patient soul when I was drunk. At the time I heard it I dealt with the News like I do whenever someone is attacking my character: I got defencive and reminded them of their trespasses. This is soButmething that hails from my childhood when my mother would criticize the quality of a chore I'd done or some peccadillo of my personality and I would immediate bring up some observation of relating to a similar failing on her part. This is the strategy I employed now. I had a bottle-and-a-half in me, so it was easy to revert to this childhood state. In fact, the wine had nothing to do with it. I had done the same this earlier in the week to my boss, Uma, when she accused me of being careless with my work. My face turned red, ashamed and frustrated with her continuing criticisms of my work and my attitude. Bitch.

Back to the topic at the top of the last paragraph. I've never been laid so low by something I did when I was drunk, and that includes an episode of pissing myself when I was seventeen. This person deserves all my love and respect; she has supported me through some of my darkest hours in the last 6 months. I'm afraid I've caused her more strife than there is water on the globe, but yet she forgives me. But this time I wen too far.

So, Berry, I am sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I love you; your beauty, your laugh, your curiosity.


ttyl

As

As Ariana Huffington would say, "You should blog about it."

Well here goes:

I could not sleep tonight. I'm sure my temporary insomnia was an affect of passing out in my one and only piece of furniture- an arm chair- at 8 pm. I woke up and felt the urge to listen to spoken voice, as per usual. David Sedaris often satisfies that urge and I did listen to a couple of stories; had some giggles alone in my bed. But, it was not enough to talk me back to sleep.

I remembered I owned a more sobering and scholarly audio book and decided that it had been too long since I had "read" it. It was, is, Howard Zinn's "A peoples' history" and within its pages, or spoken words, lie some of the most enlightening accounts of American history. Regretably, I only own the latter half of the book. As a sort of celebrity bonus, it is read by Matt Damon.

The introduction is read by Howard Zinn himself and this is what I began listening to after being awake for about 45 mins. Howard Zinn very carefully distinguishes his ideology of history from the prevailing one, the one taught to all of us in public schools. His endeavor, he explains, is to tell the history of this country-- 1492 to 1970-- from the point of view of the people. Anglo Saxon aristocrats of this nation, apparently, are responsible for the majority of historical accounts out there, well, published ones dating from Columbus' time to the mid-twentyth century. This small demographic alone has supplied the rest of the world with a over representation of certain events and monumental figures, and a slight, in some cases, miniscule, account of the affect of this two things on the common people. During the introduction to this audio book, Howard Zinn gives a sort of prologue concerning on the celebrated discovery of the "new world" by Columbus. He decides to profess the torture, enslavement and suffering the Arrowac indians who were victims of Columbus' fame, his desperation to return a profit for his investors.

I don't know why, but I immediately thought of Dr. Petersen. He was a humanist through and through; a man of the people. During the spring of 2003 I took Anthro 160, " the history of North American Indians". I can still see the tears in Dr. Petersen's eyes after showing us a movie on the 2nd wounded knee. Because of this memory, this mood, this impression of Dr. Petersen's compassion for conquered people, I found irony in his murder. Everyone has. Then I felt a tide of guilt wash over me. The condition of inequity that exists between me and Petersen's murderers is entirely our collective faults. Almost everyone at UVM and in Burlington and in the US. We put overwhelming economic force we put on small, undeveloped countries, on people who love their land. All the influence we have: it's not fair. It is not fair that we consume cocaine in huge quantities, creating a demand and livelihood for people who are yet subject to our consumption of more " wholesome goods". These are the people who shot doctor Petersen in the chest when they were high on drugs and drunk. These are the people we've created. This is what our pollution created: the need for American money, the need for the amenities of our situation. Acting as some sort of perpetual dynamo, our country has exacerbated the situation and widen the gaps in living standards by exploiting and destroying the very lands on which these people would find any alternative livelihood.

Am I exonerating Petersen's murderers and justifying the slaughter of Americans? No. I am realizing that I can not find Petersen's murder ironic in the vast context of our national influence. The irony in this situation is that James Petersen loved these people, he studied their origins and glorious pasts, and died by their hands (and in their hands). But the more subtle and important irony is that we made the gun, we made the cocaine, we made the lust for our money.

I am implicating myself.

Something is wrong

I'm going to undress so you can see me in my purest form.
I'm going to bare myself to you, in hopes that it will help you.

what more can I say about this. My options. I have options.
don't I?

am I losing my way?

am I just the same and never changing, yet being consumed with the idea, the aspiration to change.

who cares.

I am just going to wake up tomorrow, hear the same things, walk the same walk, feel the same pangs of regret, of guilt.

Here, in front of all the world, I stand: living breathing, aching proof that love can be so utterly forgot, overshadowed and blotted out by the will of the mind.

My mind as always enjoyed a totalitarian control over my destiny, my body. Not the mind I speak through now, but the mind that whispers to this one, seeding it with discontent.


feelings. I don't feel a thing.

Orgasm.

Daffodil

Daffodil

Oh you droop your head
Your lovely belle
The spring sun is upon you
Wont you turn you head to meet her?
You are her color, and closer
So alike sisters
Wont you come and meet me
In bed, where sun is on the grass

Spring, Sprang, Sprung
Your bloom is finally won
My admiration for your slender
Leaves,
Parallel veins,
Your yellow, noble corona
Your corrugated collar
Is nothing short of under-pondered
And not hard won
Not for you, my first, flower, flirting

I

Can not pick you, and take you
Away from the soil, the sun.

I

Will only look, my Daffodil
My springing, sun-shine, planted

One.

death of an artist

(F with out root on high strings)
Am
C
Gmod (slide formation of Cmajor)

on the look out for my sails
sheets of white green catchin' me
when we can't work out I bail
checking new waters promising

myself...

will remember my home
I could never forget tracks that ran
along
marshes with cats nine-tails
pine scented, turning dappled trails

along

now find a balance
between bright electric sunsets

and twisting metal wires
find some solace in it

in an parishing art-form (C and F alternate)
in superficial shit-storm

square pills for round souls
damn notions of my swift endings
trusted science to unveil
turn that pointing finger round on me


your helping me find my...
faith in complementing souls
don't even know you
yet your pulling along
hoping to have you
hoping you will have me too
just let our eyes meet
brown green mix with your blue

What if?

What if?
----------

What if the world doesn't follow the rules that I was promised?
What if it leaves its tasks, its endless spinning, its track around the sun?

What if the land doesn't lie still?
What if it opens up and swallows me, without negotiation?

What if I attempt to help, but my efforts are in vain?
What if my time is ill spent?

What if life lets me down?
What if I never know what I want?

What if the sky doesn't lie still?
What If it opens up and swallows me up, without preamble?

What if god does not exist?
What if god does not care?

What I am too scared and say "what if" forever?

What if I never see you again?

What if: then?

What now?

tuesday night fight.

hello there,


I knew you'd be listening and glistening in the dark so I could find you.

You feelings let me down ... all upon sounds of small darlings craving for a way to spend and flow...

the night breeds the solemnity and solidarity we need to show the masses breaking their apathy.

With haste.

Cause time is all that lie that haunts the early thoughts.

You count, you quantify and justify the hulking of the role.

This is the theme

Let us look for themes, shall we?

Let's you and I and the entire horde search out the patterns.
if we should join the ancients in the quest to connect the stars and make the figures of the gods.

look up.

The city nights filtered out with a selective side of impossibility.
then you see them.
you see what you would if you could become undone. if you gave up. if you knew that the savior is within yourself. medicine and religion and belongings aside.

the contrast increases with the setting of the sun, when you are young. or The fading of the electric lights, when you are of respectable and dignified age.

you see them.

They come out so tentatively-- timid and touching the dark that surrounds them. They love to wonder and wow you, astonish you, belittle you. Put you in your place. You microscopic, vanishingly thin and tiny(cramped with time) place. You love them like you could never love a being that made you feel this way.

you count them.

Can you help it? You brain is too big, rather, you are impressed with the fabled largeness. You just have to. But you lose you concentration, as you do with all things ultimately daunting. You count as fast as your a heart beats, and to count them all, you realize, will take the rest of your beats... and more still. All the beats of the hearts, of the things on this earth that have hearts.

you characterize them.

Connect them instead. You see a snake, a fish, a lion, a warrior. There they are, clear as day. These things so important to you, you trace them and, finally, find them in the star-fields

you lose them

you've lost the point.

Plus, there is always the one star that just doesn't fit the pattern: a blemish on your genius.

You wanted to know.

You wanted to know.

The 7th of September: evil spirit after work

Something came over me... I was in such a rush to get home. Get home to what? Food I guess. Something was over me. I left after spliting a 6 well plate of 22a into 3 chamber slides, of course it took longer than I had planned (not that I planned anything).

At home, I started eating; I was hungry. Tortia chips and hummus, olives, two tomatoes, nothing actually substantial. The feeling I had is hard to describe: hunger, hot face, heart beating fast, nervous. Was my soul stirring in the froth of events that took place all that day? Had I neglected my body earilier after working out? Did I ingest too much sodium? Was the whole business of begin 25, but not feeling like I'm "beening" at all catching up to me again?

I broke down and told Cedric I was thinking about going back to school.
"I'm thinking of taking the GREs and just going to grad school. I've been thinking that I just need to be involved with the whole academic process again." He sensed my desperation and knew I was thinking, what I call, thinly. I've given it a name because I do it daily. It is the kind of thought that you put into tieing your shoe, or brushing your teeth. Only, for me, I do it with very important stuff, like life decisions, my social actions, my words, whether or not to bike in traffic without a helmet. Things like that; important things. So he knew something was wrong, he sensed rightly.

"What happened to Med school."

I felt like saying, "Fuck Med school. If there is one thing I've proved to myself in 25 years of living it is that I care only for myself and nothing else."

Of course, I did not say this. Mostly because I've never said the word "fuck" around him, and partly because it is untrue.

It comes down to risks... I don't take the right risks... is that possible? Right risks? hm... oxy-moron, er something.

Anyway... I don't calculate. I don't even know what I want exactly. How can I decide, how can I comitt, choose, emerse myself. I'll just sit here and waste some more time. It is just easier to fester than to act.

the winds

Well, a lot has happened since I've actually sat down and wrote. This exerise is the most therapeutic activity in which I can engague. Deep breath.

Not in alphabetical order

Katrina:

What can I say about this awfulness that has not already been said...yet, maybe say something unoriginal- something said everyday- is a good way of show solidarity with those who are in pain and affected. So I'll say it: I'm praying for the millions displaced and homeless and lost and dead and feeling hopeless by this storm.

As a scientist, I was very interest in the causations of Katrina. Why was this storm so destructive? What enviromental factors contributed to the strom's doomsday-like verocity. Asking these questions only led me to define the word "Destruction".

Destruction in the context of the human condition; how the storm affected the people of that region? What was destroyed? Homes, ways of life, commerce, industry, families... lives, people. All of these and every instance, every particular story is as tragic as the next.

animals, plants and the entire southern wetlands of Mississippi and Louisianna are disrupted, polluted.

....

freedom and chaos

The ancient art of law
she's talking about control. I'm telling her my chaos.

Darlin'

Coast to Coast

Here I come, my new adventure.
My home, I need a home.

c

Facebook me!

Weekend, today, etc.

This weekend was a little more than eventful. Kind of.

Friday night: Greg Douglass show, which was amazing. Bought his new CD, got it signed. Went home in a sour mood because. I think I realized that I that I could have been creating music all this time, all the time since high school. And, maybe I would be expressing myself and being a more effective human being. Or maybe I would've just looked down my nose at whatever else I didn't do to my satisfaction.

Off the subject completely, but I need to chonical what I see as a major character flaw in myself, something I struggle with daily. It may be sloth, or some innate sense of time that is so skewed that the urgent becomes unurgent and the time critical seems to be calling some bluff I have with it. I've had a real problem with this lately. Nothing is ever complete. Nothing is ever up to par. I could alway do more, so why do anything? You get no closer to your goal when your goal is set at infinity. This might seem like a theatrical exaggeration, but no- this is what I feel.

I guess the decisions I make them to try to dodge reality.

and what can I feel? nothing. unless there is a toxic fluid filtered in the morning hours. For the timebeing it is liquid emotion, wet neuronal stimulation. The consequences be damned. Need to be motivated, inspired, slight of self-loathing and great with tear.

At home. Far away.

Sitting on an ottoman (foot stool). Shirtless.

I saw a man bare his soul tonight, with a raspy voice that didn't fit his face. Simple was the theme. Soul searching was the plot. 38 and in love only twice. So much to learn, too much to learn.

I heard a man died from a shot to the chest. He had been traveling, discovering and contributing to his killers. They say the villians, the Vandels were drugged: high on cocain. He died soon after. The thoughts in those last moments are secrets forever.

But these are really words for you... i can't sleep. i can't see. i can't make it happen, bring it to fruition. Whatever "it" is.

From the land of countless four-leaved clovers, there: terra is dusty and brown. The hills have only shrubs and scrub, whence the fogs pour down. Sun is constantly watching, reminding you of your space. The moon's waxing and waning, in gentle winds of grace.

The horns are relentlessly reminding, morning in cool air. Apollo's towing a glowing crown, burning images of there.
I suppose it is rather pointless, ignoring all extremes. Yet slight of logic, happy of heart, I replay it in my dreams.

One person can change the world.

Dr. Petersen, you are being missed.

I don't want to believe it.

http://www.burlingtonfreepress.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050815/NEWS01/508150305/1009

why would we play?

I've been on this damned computer most of this rainy Sunday.

I miss this about Maine:

In mid-August, you could always sense the summer coming to a close. You were so in touch with the land, the air, the pitch and strength of the sun, the flora and fauna. No one had to tell you when it was, you knew it like you know to blink or draw in breath, it was mid-August. The sun was going down a tad ealier. The nights, they were a bit cooler. The fields were turning a golden yellow from their previous lush green, the stalks tall and the whole world was dry and sweet smelling.

The apple tree on the hill was baring fruit: sour, small globes. The cat tails are fat now, perched atop slender green towers. The corn is high, the tomatoes ripe.

The car is always hot with trapped sun. The road is liquid and the horizon distorded.

The clouds are a billowing up into the stratosphere in the day. You lay out at night and see every star that could, you believe, ever exist. You could never count them all, though, every night, you try.

The forest is thick and dark green. The maples have leaves bigger than your hands. The pines are coneing and smell of ptich, which gets all over your hands.

During supper your father is content, eating boiled corn at the end of the table, his back to the picture window. The sun, you notice, is turning the line of pines accross the street a strange, but beautiful orange. You know that this will happen earlier each night, the pine tree's tall spires will turning like the maples and oaks.

Soon summer is over.

Finally sitting down.

Relax. Have a seat. Get something done by writing something down. So you've finally endevored to ask yourself the difficult questions, good for you.

In this book, How the Irish Saved Civilization-I've listened to at least 15 times in it's entirety- Thomas Cahill, the author, uses the life and works of Augustin to illustrate classical life. His brief biography of this "classical man" not only serves Cahill's purpose: to contrast the classical world-an epoch filled with deep culture, order and academics- with the chaotic, harsh and, most importantly, illiterate Middle Ages. But it also gave a glimpse of Augustin as a monumental figure in literature, religion and latin. He was the first person to say the word "I" and mean what we mean today.

This part of the book was most powerful for me, most moving, because it introduced me to Augustin as a young man. Augustin was Romanized African whose father was a petty official. When he was young- my age- he settled in Carthage, the largest city in Roman Africa. In his autobiography, called "Confessions", he tells us that his soul was unsettled, restless, constantly searching for... something. A translated verse from Cahill, "I carried inside me a cut and bleeding soul, and how to get ride of it I just didn't know. I sought every pleasure: the countryside, sports, fooling around, the peace of a garden, friends and good company, sex, reading. My soul floundered in the void and came back upon me. For where could my heart flee from my heart..."
Amazing. This encapsulates my feelings so utterly, so completely, that I am brought to the edge of emotion...

Forward.

Onward.

Try not to cut the glade all at once.
Try not to be so impatient, so American, so you.
Wait for it. Wait for the right moment.
Ponder upon it. Rumenate. Think it over. Define.

A moment.

I just have a moment at work. Just a small one before I have to divide up what little concentration abilities I have to deal with a host of tasks. Whatever, I basically want to see if this new Blogger posting Widget works. I love technology, computers and anything that keeps people connected... except voicemail.

I think it is time.

This is New York City. Last night we broke down. I said what had to be said. I finally pointed to the cracks in the wall, the ripped carpet, the dripping faucet, bottles in the sink and said, " This is a most tragic thing, what I changed into."

I suspect to atone. So much love I have to have only responsibility.

There is nothing to do. Just tressure a San Fransisco sun rise, which was not that long and shrouded in fog.