Didn’t know it was raining until it was too late. Jumped on my board still. Pushed to the next bus stop. A slippery existence. God be my brake.
Quiet morning. A moment of writing. Warm lemon water now turned cold. Pausing between pages from the past wondering how I will remain present. A slight drift. No real sleep last night. Book bound. Still I look for myself. Flat pillows.
Bus creeps down Fairfax. Headed to a grove with no oranges. The rain calls my spirit into a place of comfort. The unrealized sect convinced their moods now dimmed by all the grey flecks. But I still see the sun.