The hardest battles are the ones that you have with yourself.

I am sitting on my hardwood (read: parque) floor, legs wrapped around the tiny stool that Robert brought me from Africa, the one that I use for a computer stand.

My thoughts my attention my desire float in and out, listen to a hot song by Kings of Leon and I am distracted by the rawness of his voice...I think he probably smokes too many cigarettes or other things and that's why he sounds like that...then I think of:

"Is this weed?"....
"I should take your ass to jail, you know that?"
"For what?"
"For what?!? Look at this!!"
"That's just nuttin' but a cigarette, man!"
"This ciga-weed!"
"Well it look like a cigarette."
"You betta have glaucoma."
"I do."


In and out between fantasy and reality. I should be asleep, I am tired, but I should also write, I should be writing I should be sleeping....I should I should I should...I should just fucking be, screw all the other nonsense in between.

But I am a night owl. I like the dark.

Not so much to see in the dark, not so much to take in.

I like being awake to hear the collective sigh of the city, asleep. I like being a night owl in this city because I know that I can always find some other vagrant soul knocking about, too.

Yep. There's always somebody.