Decompression.

Spontaneous night drive, long hours in the dark talking deep and winding through San Francisco and up and east to party in a vineyard barn, full of mannequins and lights, mirrors and beautiful strangers in fur and feathers, spilled wine and cupcakes, dogs wandering through and picking at scraps, music and fire, paint and cold air, and then Santa Rosa at 5am, bleary eyed father and Karen with blankets, waking up late and lazy and walking through the brick buildings in Railroad Square with iced chai, tree-dappled sunlight and a screw lodged solidly in my tire, goop and gunk and air, father fixes and we’re off headed down through yellow hills that look soft to touch and into that panicky San Fran traffic, back into boots and fur, and expensive IPA and big search lights, snakes and dogs and babies with head phones, and a trio of dancing men in velvet and knickers and leggings, strutting and painting and dancing in bright lights, laughing at the silent disco, headphones on green or blue, and everyone convulsing, so silly in the silence but so earnest when you’re tuning in, lifting up, and then winding home down the 17, all darkness and empty belly and thinking about what it means to be home and what it means to have a suitcase in the back of your car.