How can I be expected to properly express myself when my
vocabulary is so small a thing and the world so large and full of nuanced
experiences? Here always comes the start—the outpour that does not know if
there is too much or too little, if we are too similar or all alike, if there
is more or less to be done, if I am doing anything right or everything wrong. I
am tired, tiresome, my skin feels heavy and old, despite my sometimes role as
that sort of semi-wandering embodiment of innocence. God bless the drugs, and
God bless your father growing marijuana in his vast French fields. God bless
the white-eyed German boy walking down the highway in his underwear with his
thumb out. What have we done? Picked up a bit of trash, at least. God bless
that docile compliance to the flow of life that rises up with the first rays of
sun when our jaws are still working and our pale shadows are still jumping all
across the sand. The margin for error is as slippery a place as my heels are
full of sea urchin spores, but there is something to be said for these
transition spaces and the strange, wonderful people that inhabit them, thumbing
through memories in their little wooden homes. Home is where your questions
come unraveled. Home is where you test out your new skin and hope.
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