When the sky was young and trees were just seeds in the wind, and when the laugh was loud and guts were to be held inside.

Mania and manic are the same thing, are they not?

All I can think about recently is L.A. It is singing to me. It's quiet diginity is playing poetically to me. The place that Dave and I got burritos from two nights in a row, and then we took the rest of the band there the next morning for breakfast. That place exists. That place is perfect and where it is. Concrete steps leading to concrete sidewalks. The performers of Venice Beach wanting and needing to be there everyday. The smell of seagull poop coming from the breakwater hundreds of yards off of the coast. I want to be there, but I don't want it to be the same. I want to live there, but change everything it has ever meant to me. I want to visit each restaurant one by one.