A Note to My Vagabonding Friend

I wanna write crazy messages, but I don’t think I have stationary crazy enough to hold them.  I’m thinking of you, but maybe not you, but a crazy idea of freedom, or something beyond this, or beyond everything and I don’t know what that would be.  An aimless roadtrip through no-name towns, gas station bathrooms with the door handle all loosy-goosy and the only lock a sliding hasp that you have to apply considerable force to.  Washed out desert scenes like an overexposure in your head.  And sex or no sex or crazy friendship, or I don’t know, but something that leaves you a little or a lot off-kilter and affected like I am not the same person who walked into this room. Where is that?  A letting go of everything. A sort of long solo trip somehow assisted by another person. Or maybe not one person but two, or two people in which the boundaries get all blurry and fuzzy and where do I end and you begin and is this yours or mine and I’m inside of you or you’re inside of me?  Washed out and no-tone overexposed lost all sense of everything view coming out of the Chinese-American Diner What can I getcha, Hon? Bacon and 2 eggs $2.99 in Barstow almost directly across from the trainyard and the only thing dark enough in all this light are the strings of cars stopped miraculously in front of us and now, then, maybe always, I don’t want to fuck you, just hold you as we finally find a boxcar and some old carpet and get some sleep for the first time in what feels like forever.

Sleep.  Sleep.

But then I can’t of course because how fucking great is this? To be alive – alive! to be breathing this air, to be in this body, to be on this Earth.  To spend this moment with you.

How will I ever sleep again?

And then somehow I do.

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