San Francisco, California

San Francisco, California

The buildings whiz by outside the window as if one paint brush the size of the horizon smeared all the colors together.
The colors are dreamy, distant, drugged out and blurry.
It stops and I’m in a tunnel.
Like a school of fish we stream together at one point and are ejected violently through a narrow exit the width of two people.
We fan out and swim toward the surface where we won’t find any fresh air — at least not like the mountains.
Our footsteps are heavy and somewhat furious for no reason at all.
We dodge in and out of strollers, men at work and taco stands — I can smell the carne asada, the grilled beef, corn tortillas and Valencia street.
A few blocks up and a few over, and I am alone again next to a mural. Someone left their thoughts in an array of color and chaos. I’m sure it means something — it always does. It should.
A few steps further and I’m in front of a door. A women answers, she knows my friend. But it’s the eyes beyond her left shoulder that catch me off guard.
Surprises are travel.
Her eyelashes grope my attention in a dense bog of German and French musical tones. I’ve fallen underwater and I cannot hear anything.
My eyes and ears begin to fill up with liquid confusion. I can’t see or hear what’s real.
The hour hand begins to melt away like cheap soft serve ice cream as the minutes move by like a Willy Wonka chocolate stream.
I think I speak a different language now and I like it.
Romance ideas — naivety trumps cynicism even if you hate love.
It’s a fast walk back to the tunnel. Paint brushes brushing the darkness and the city lights look like a hyper-speed trip on the millennium falcon only there isn’t a Chewbacca.
Super 8 motel.
I make a quick read and now I’m alone again.

There is no neutral in Switzerland.


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