"Arthur Miller and Henry Miller, apparently not the same person///"

or "There is a certain point in time that is neither day nor night where the horizon has not yet peaked and the Black Eyed Peas song 'Lets Get Retarded' may very well lead to catharsis"

I park the car in the same space i pulled out of, and lock the doors manually. It's like a million little perfect crimes.

A minute earlier and the streets are filled with barristas; in the rearview, my eyes are runny eggs with chestnut yolk. Christmas lights still line the street, but none of them are illuminated.

A minute earlier, I am buckling a seat belt and focusing my eyes. I rev the engine and finger the presets. David Byrne is singing "Burning Down the House".

Hold tight wait till the partys over
Hold tight we're in for nasty weather
There has got to be a way

I decide to write myself a letter...

Dear Eric,
I want you to remember this,
You're flat broke and borrowing money, you owe slightly more than you're owed and it's catching up to you. You have more shit than you have room for, and you can't even provide a decent place for your pet rat to sleep. You don't have any sort of job that makes sense, and you aren't happy with your art.

I want you to remember this now and the next time you're down. I want you to remember this next week when you're getting up at 5 to make it to work on time. I want you to remember this when you're old and pathetic and sold out and slow.

You spent the night of Wednesday, January 25, and the morning of Thursday, January 26, 2007 hanging out and doing drugs with people that you love. You played in a living room fort and ate homemade birthday cake like a child. You listened to bad techno and Nina Simone and watched a film about Anais Nin, and at the end of the night, a nude girl who (except for the tattoo) looked like the picture perfect image of what your mind sees when it thinks of faeries whispered into your ear that "you are the prettiest straight boy" before fluttering out of the room. Your crappy life is full of beautiful nights like these.

You race the sun home and win. You eat popcorn chicken and read Ginsberg in the tub. You chase toothpaste with cola, running in circles. You pull Autumn's laptop out from under Christian, sleeping on the couch, noting that both names are just regular words, and make the sentence sound so much like metaphor you almost believe it. You retitle yourself, in the way of a self-made God and until sleep, you are

Air Excess

[currently listening to "Tales of the Forgotten Melodies" by Wax Tailor]