I’m writing this blog on my phone because it’s the only thing to pull me out of the exhausted haze I’m in. In a cafe to escape my apartment oven. It’s loud in here and I hate the noise. I don’t want to listen to Ozzie full blast among all the summer bodies, doors clanging, steem wafting…but I cannot escape. This is my life right here and now. Wailing Ozzie and the novel Steppenwolf that makes me sleepy when I attempt to read it, though I want to read it badly. It’s hard to focus in here and my mind hurts and I’m craving silence but outside feels sticky and hazy like my brain. Where am I? Come here, now. Now. Here. Humans with books, laptops, coffee, tea, beer, sandwiches, glasses and plates. Oh, moment, I’m sorry but I crave to be somewhere else. I don’t want this anymore. I want to be new and somewhere new. But I can appreciate this too. Air conditioning cools my balmy skin. Loud music sucks the sorrow out of me. I’m not up to my old stories again. The summer is dying. The old me is dying. My love is dying too. Old love, that is. The kind of love that hangs on to sand castles and travels like the wind. This heart that beats inside this skin is passionate and scarlet red. I couldn’t pretend to be anything less. Like the glowing neon R of the beer sign I see before me. Like the melting ice in the cold brew coffee I’m drinking. Wait. Melting ice is not passionate, not one bit. Melting ice is that other part of me speaking. I wish to melt away into nothingness. I am melting under Shiva’s fire. Ozzie is unconscious medicine. No edit on this one. Not even a read through. It is what is and I am see-through.