monday

on new year's evening, the city seems a little hollow, the street lights darker. no cars in sight; i imagine the whole city empty and kick the gas pedal, palm trees flash by. southern california is the most beautiful place to be empty in the world.

buying pomegranate white tea, thinking about tomorrow, the year. i think i am always looking for a new self, to leave and find another place, to be new again, but really i am just looking for the thing that has gone silent, that my fingers brush sometimes. "it must be there somewhere, it must have been mine, before being his, I'll recognize it, in the end I'll recognize it, the story of the silence that he never left, that I should never have left, that I may never find again" (Beckett)

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