...
And then we went back to California, gave it another shot, and it didn’t work out, and my reality ruptured again, the foreignness returned. Even my own body was foreign, being that it was so strangely un-held and un-kissed.
It is always the moment just before death but sometimes it especially feels that way.
In May in Silverlake, the jasmine blooms enormous, and its thick glamorous treacliness, along with its armpitty undertones, cradle you while you saunter amongst the hot people and overpriced real estate. Guard dog urine and puffs of weed accompany the jasmine, and the sun sweeps clean through you, animating colors so vivid that your meagre awareness feels unable to hold it all, like it might spill over at any time.