We walk everywhere. Exercise & the confused Washington spring breathe a breath of a delicious wet air warm blue. We order burgers & fries & wines & margaritas. We walk it off. Everyone we bump into is slightly sad. All of us feel dropped. Only the two men who drive by in a workervan look happy, but happy in the feverishlyhorny for multipleseconds way. We're all moving. We're all pretending to move. When I say 'existing,' I mean 'exisiting.' We walk it off. Drink a lot of coffee. I read a lot of Bukowski, which isn't helpful; too much sad & too much sex. I read Bukowski over coffee downtown & get distracted by the way the Indian woman outside is licking her bottom lip like a wave. I sit on an old sofa & tell my man Mr. Duff shitty things people do & he's all like, Read this book from 1972. Now I'm codependent & non-assertive. And I'm like, Isn't everyone? Here is a happier story. It's the story of our walks. It was when you & I walked with a bottle of wine that felt like Time & Circumstance & the Future wasn't so important. I love walking here. There's always something blue to see - everyone or the bay, this confusing spring.