In the pod room

LAX waiting room, October 1, 2005

[I am glad that the yearning, painful, angry feeling I remember as the dominant emotion of years 16-22 is only as far away as my iPod and sound cancelling headphones. In this case, I can not imagine a more crowded place; there was a woman hacking her lungs into a tissue in the seat next to me, but I felt completely alone. I wish I could remember what I was listening to at the time.]

Scratched on the flyleaf of "The Risk Pool":
Feels like the edges of the room are falling away. Sitting almost knees up to chin and assholes are circling around. I am sinking slowly.

I mean, who the hell else can I blame but myself? I knew they were trouble as they were coming.

Everyone here is talking at me but I can't hear. Fuck this shit.

The woman who made the restroom smell like crotch rot didn't wash her hands when she came out. But she did make a squeak, a save me from unclean water falling on my head squeak, when she came around a corner and into a wet floor sign.

If I have a daughter I'll make sure she I don't know

There is smoke outside from the wildfires.