the usual prattle of traffic in hollywood on a friday night has died down—inevitably to return soon as the bars close. cars idle, waiting for parking. the air is ‘unhealthy to breathe’ or something, but nobody turns their key toward change.

the premeditation of writing makes my mind go blank & there is a strange absence of the police helicopters overhead tonight. perhaps it’s the lunar eclipse.

years ago there would be endless attempts to capture the moon, zoomed-in through the camera lens on an iphone 4, filling up instagram feeds. now it’s all horoscopes. people used to strive to capture any moment of beauty in this ugly world—now they just search for any reason it’s falling apart. for any sense of hope at all.

there are worse places to find yourself than los angeles. i’m now more cautious about setting fires, wearing clothes not my own anymore. some never really were.

and i wonder how my friends are doing. the hummingbirds didn’t return this year—or maybe i just missed them over these months of idle revisionism. there are still things i can do, amends to make. slivers to pick at, an open sea.

for now, i’m thirty minutes late.