2014-03-05 I never meant to end up in bed with you, swaying in the afternoon light on the wire-suspended loft. You had cut off all your hair and dyed what was left a reddish color. I missed that feeling, running my hand down your side, over the mole on the back of your hip. Do you even know it's there? So many things we will never know. You wanted me to help you set up an appointment with a psychologist, but I was evasive, reluctant to do some else's taxes. What do they do anyway but talk, like we are now? I got up and walked over to my painting bench and the loft wobbled uncomfortably. It traced out an endless spiral superposition of lissajous figures on the floor. Not really a loft, but I had taken to sleeping on it. What passed for sleep these days at least, between failing the tests I had expected to be easy. "Arrow cell?" is that even a word in english? "Rhampotheca?" what? Picked up a dried wisp of something, some kind of grass from the park, and dipped it in blue ink. They make the most unexpected flower patterns if you just push straight at the paper, perfect drawings of lotus and horsetail. Let the brush do the work. Schwoop there's another, and another. I felt immortal, invincible with the paintbrush. Spin a tree root soaked in dye and a whole world appears. Push a wire dipped in paint and it's a computer program, who are you to say it's not. I should dye and nickel dip those baby monkey skulls with the deformed teeth. A fitting tribute. You were still there on the loft, wrapped in blankets and watching me paint, or whatever it was. Such a hot mess. Hey remember that time we went walking towards downtown, through all the gang war memorial parks with the little plastic castles? There was a hill you could stand on and see all the way to the lake. I think it used to be an onramp to a freeway that's no longer there. Man, those were the days.