Thursday, March 7, 2013
I remember bright eyes on a sunny afternoon, twinkling vodka promises. The grass was warm and the sky, endless. It is just a snapshot, but I'm glad I saved it. You had your own gravitational pull. The park existed around you, and you collected puppies and small children and men with tall beers in wrinkled brown bags. They passed by on their orbits, unaware of why they were even there. The children smiled and spun off into sand-boxed oblivion. The puppies leapt and tumbled. I was only barely existing. I was one broken guitar away from saying 'fuck it'. There was an amazing freedom in the apathy and absolution. We smoked and looked toward the gleam of glass windows and the quiet of Mission Dolores. All of San Francisco knew. You could smell it on the breeze. A sun-soaked promise...a warning. Everyone sitting on the grass could feel it. They could have warned me. But I'm glad they didn't.
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