I�m sitting at distribution. The mustard-yellow walls make me feel, frankly, hot. The ebonic symphony of words beats the flow from a quartet of speakers. The melodious monotony of a grey white man wearing grey-white denim that must have once been blue drones on and on. A tiny fly flies by me like an invisible zeppelin full of disease. The scuff-marked floor gleams mazes of shoe scum and chairs dragged in a melancholy haze of haste. The metallic whine of a microphoned voice behind glass reminds me of childhood tin can string conversating. That world behind glass is a world of desks, staplers, tape, chairs and calendars. Too bad they are locked up behind their metal doors and glass walls spattered with notices like banners. The rumbling trucks ramble past in the outside world. And if I didn�t understand English the voices would just be beating, stringed, a humming drum. A mumbling jumble of races of all colours and faces, fluting out whimsically cacophonic phrases.

I�m sitting at Golden Gate Park. A full crowd of self-crowned authorities all chatting simultaneously saying money is bad while choking out �would you like to buy some�?� Sadly I know no one here would give me anything for free, though it is a festival of freedom. I�m not offering them something to get them high or make their hip image more hippie. Because fashion matters most and most don�t know what their image denotes other than that four-letter word �cool� coincidentally rhyming with fool. The blue sky is invisible beneath the burning brightness of sun. The music is intelligible at a closeness before the jabberwocky crowds of babbling Babylonians cheer on revolution from their slave-made shoes. They slaved themselves for 4 hours at a job to purchase what they could�ve made. This all to flaunt image from some vantage point looking at some ideal created by a different viewpoint. And mine is a blanket - dyed hues of grey, purple and blue. The smell of commerce is everywhere from the food, the clothes, the perfumes, and the cannabis. A simple plant indigenous to earth but cut and dried illegally and sold as another commodity. This should be ludicrous, but we water grass only to cut it and pay for water, and our shit to be sucked into a giant blender and strained back into our mouths. These hippiecrits are hypnotized by lying lines like �money is a nessisary tool�. Work your life away. Sell your hours, minutes, seconds, days, weeks, months and years for every penny. How much are you worth at a second glance? $100, or $7 an hour and ticking. Divide by taxes to fund wars, pollution, departments, slavery - and you are left with your empire.

I�m sitting next to the library. My clothes are damp where my backpack rests. Today is as similar as yesterday. I feel like I live here now. I woke up early this morning in our squat and someone was making noise in the other room. I figured that is was the landlord because my roomie ran into him last night. And it was. He sat there smiling toothlessly at me, and what could I do? I was in his supposedly unused building. I started talking to him like any normal person. And a conversation developed while he showed me cool ground-scores he found and asked me if I did drugs.
�No�
�I do,� he said, pulling out a needle, some saline and a tiny bag filled with something white.
I think of powdered sugar and asbestos.
�Does this bother you?�
�No�
People are people after all. Besides, it was his house, anyhow. He put a tourniquet on and showed me some tissue paper he found. An array of patterns dyed or block-printed on a whole vibrant stack. I look up to see a trickle from a track as his sleeve falls back.
�This is my favorite.�
We agree on a green plaid-like-earthy piece. Soon we are dissecting a computer he found, pulling out the guts like a science project. And like a surgeon he puts together a peanut butter and blackberry sandwich. Our conversation continued in a way that loses everything on paper like pouring fine wine onto a sponge to drink it while staring at a glass.

That was hours ago, inside tan walls. Now my back lies against grey granite. I sit by the leg-powered transports as I eye the red one that I rode here. As I wait the doors swing open like jaws and suck in the swarm of people humming and buzzing like locusts tuned down 8 octaves. The whole string of people sucked in like a strand of spaghetti splattering the ground with footsteps and slithering in.

I�m sitting on a cushion in line for a computer so I can check my mail. My imaginary, stationary box accessible from any terminal. My house follows me on my back. Turtle-like, I live anywhere and eat what I find. Dumpster diving is undignified, but is starving worse? Companies throw away tons of good food a day, and I don�t even mean tons in the metaphoric sense. That is the empty feeling in my stomach� not hunger. My hunger is coupled with my thoughts of my day. All I see is a finger twisting around strands of hair, and arms around other necks. It won�t make sense to me, but the apology was nothing but a hastened �Space� I need that.� Problematic mat that I am. Door mat, floor mat, your mat. Wipe, step, walk, and grind your grime into me every time.

I�m sitting in an empty park. A prop plane hidden by clouds tears through the sky and a siren far off screams �ATROCITY�. I am hungry, and my stomach gurgles its daily greeting. Today it asks for wine, heavy with warmth to clean me of toxins. A cotton swab dabbed on my cuts. Today it asks for incense. Not the lung munching tobacco to cough and gag up phlegm. Medicinal fumes would sooth my pains, but they are illegal. So how do I compromise? Take terrible pills, syrups, or creams filling my body with unnatural toxic things? I decide to dream of coffees and teas to soothe my throat and a massage to heal my back. But it won�t happen. The image of my food stamp card floats in my head� though I�ve used it near dry. I give what comes my way freely and now it comes back to me. I wanted my wife to love me completely. But I let all things go if they like, and welcome most things that come, unless from ill will.

I�m not sitting in front of the theater on Haight Street, but a girl is. Sad brown eyes follow full pockets as her tiny �spare any change� shoots darts into my heart. I mumble silently that I wish I had a million dollars to end her humiliation. Her fingers weave hemp in circles and braids so she can make it through the day. I would take her out to a movie and falafel even though I�m not sure what that is. But, I am poor and �spoken for�, though the speaker hardly refers to me anymore. Unspoken silence clenches my day. I have gold, for that is silence, but my silence buys nothing. Introspection is worth more than gold, so I remain thankful.

I�m sitting at an opera, but there is no singing and no music� only words. Applause rolls and crashes around the sea of people. A couple goggles eyes and drinks fine wine with grapes and bread. Suddenly a woman harmonizes with a flute and an oboe and a siren. Somewhere police rush unaware of notes and compositions. They tune their radio from static to thumping tin-can voices dispatching stings of numbers. The woman singing might be using English but the tubular echoes sound like a trumpet. A beautiful spinning song takes hold and captures a man into vibrating a tense vocal cord to the music. Now I feel lost because the crowd stands, and gathers their belongings. This song is spinning around my head familiarly and I decided it must be one I�ve heard before. The crowd answers my inner question with the loudest applause I�ve heard. D�j� vu. The song is starting again, and I wonder if time lapsed. A couple twirls, somehow controlling an out of control spin. The woman�s long red braid matches her hair and freckles while her dress swirls as lightly as her breasts. The man�s pony tail whips around casually as his dark glasses reflect the world rotating by. Somehow they disappear.

I�m sitting next to a candle. I feel like I don�t have glasses on, though I�ve never needed them. These words are strange worm-like scratches on the page and the light flickers melodically. The squat is quiet and dark but the bottle reflects light and my day sitting quietly next to me. But I wish for too much. I�m too grand a dreamer. Where would I be if I never had a speaker speak for me? The last place anyone would look, but the first place that would make sense. But here I am waiting to be ignored. God�s hand slowly palms me into my sleeping bag with the assurance that I won�t sleep long. Comfort is an attitude or a lifestyle or a gift. Three definitions for one term all leading to the extreme Truth. Like �yes�, �no� and �maybe� for one full answer. Truth is EVERYTHING. The right answer. The wrong answer and why it is wrong. The excuses in between. The full range of color, not just the black and white. Vibrant in its completeness.

I�m sitting on a toilet. The squat�s rule rings merrily in my head. �If it�s yellow let it mellow, if its brown flush it down.� I hate calling myself anything. I am most definitely not a hippie. I am not an activist. I am not an environmentalist. Terms to fit people into their social boxes. Clique social groups classifying humanity. But we are all just humans. Not that I�d pretend to be normal in the backwards popular sense of the word. I am just an Earthling, a Terran, and an object indigenous to this planet. Ah� now there is no group. The sky, the trees, the dirt, the buildings, the pets, the trash, the people, the diamonds, the vehicles, the animals, the mountains are all objects on this planet. All which are made from atoms. The all-inclusive atom gang. We non-discriminatorily flash our gang sign by just being. But that doesn�t mean now everything is friendly to me. Many humans get caught up in image and cling to the abnormal society to leave me wondering and alone.
Punk
The word reminds me of when I had a Mohawk.
Crusty
My year old shirt almost see-through because it hasn�t ever been washed.
Prep
My sweater, button-up shirt and tie while I hung out with the cool chicks at a club.
Emo kid
My 1-strap bag and cappuccino accompaniments to my tears.

But those are just terms for me before I realized everything was everything, and I was limiting my self by being something. Just like the term Christian limits me to that terribly overused image. The SUV driving soccer mom who doesn't give a damn about the 55-year-old homeless dude on the street next to her church. Or the churches selling coffee and T-shirts and events. Reading the Bible you�ll understand that Jesus didn�t care what others thought of him, and just tried to love everyone and tell them the truth. That is Christianity in Truth. Not saying Hail Mary half a billion times, or prying ancient hymns out. It is singing out to God when you are happy walking down the street humming some random tune.

I�m sitting outside the coalition on homelessness. I am here because San Francisco isn�t generous. I was at the library reading and decided to have some tea while I ate a sandwich. I had a cup, and just wanted some hot water. I walked down to the basement where the caf� was located. No. I traveled across the street to burger king. 25�. I went to donut star down on the corner. 50�. Finally the coalition let me use their bathroom for warm tap water. That girl is here today. She kissed me twice this morning and held my hand. I kissed her back, even though it wouldn�t do any good. Last night was hell. She came in with 2 guys and told me they were leaving with or without me to open a squat somewhere and spend the night there. I knew the squat would suck, but it was my only way of being with her for my allotted 10 seconds a day. We slipped up a fence, around the side, up stairs, on a roof, and through some bars. Clutter and horrid smell everywhere. Rat traps, mold, and feces everywhere. We explored downstairs to find a needle in a dartboard. A rat in a trap. A pile of pictures of half-naked women torn lustfully from a magazine. Then we went upstairs into a room that girl didn�t want to explore. Fear emanated from the room at the sound of our footsteps� I wondered if it was a person in hiding. The floor was painted with shit. Then a fluttering noise and flashes of a pigeon let me know that the floor was lucky. Nature had taken over this squat and turned it into a hellhole� which makes me wonder who lived here once. We left with bolt cutters in hand and the fence stabbed the girl�s arms viciously. The small white incision became a faucet of blood. We walked back home and as I pounced over the fence an indistinguishable figure held a light at me. �Hello?� I called a couple hundred times. �What�s up?� Another couple hundred. I gave up and went inside. I was very sick now. She kept ignoring me and ditching me, or always bringing someone along. The terrible air in the squat had torn my lungs to confetti. The guy and girl slept next to each other as I sat mournfully making tea long into the night. I wondered why tomorrow was coming so slowly.

I�m sitting in UN plaza. Today is very foggy and all the sounds are muted and distant. Louis Armstrong playing the car horns. I am driftingly attached to this world. I half-hear my coughing. My body is somewhere else months ago. My warmth flitters away like a sad grey butterfly because I am. My grey pants, my grey coat. I hate sleeping in the same room with that girl who sleeps always next to that guy because I am nothing. I am the old model. I want to leave and sleep under the giant arms of redwoods and smell their perfumes and eat nothing until I die years too early. If I left this society and lived as long as I could, it might be long enough for me to achieve something. Perhaps a year of malnutrition and dirty water to soothe my soul as my thin frame turns into branches like a fallen log to grow a forest of fungi and feed birds. I feel let go, but tethered. I know the outcome is going to be the same as it was last time, because that girl can�t love. She wants space to cuddle with astronauts until they are human, and too human for her. I still love her, and that is why I am still sick. My heart aches because it feels the future coming on� the pain of removal. Not the meaningless pain of punches, burns, cuts, or kicks� the real pain of ripping and tearing. A police car blows its horn to make our lives miserable. My grey pigeon friends fly off so another human won�t oppress them. The white car with the black-suited officer rolls by to eye me. His judgement is thick as syrup. The high-pitched maintenance truck screams as the officer creeps back by like a snake to bite some helpless prey. My grey mood makes me forget to see the pigeons mocking humans with their imitated walking and social groups. I forget to see the seagull dancing on a pedestal. Long forgotten are the swaying trees and brushing grass. Just the painful memories of a past to be repeated. I am the shoe without the partner, stripped of its laces and discarded as trash.

I�m sitting by the black obelisk. A dead pigeon lays bloodied, face down, and I remember when that girl and I were sitting here weeks ago. The sun was heating the bricks then while I strummed my guitar. We sewed, chatted happily, and ate bread. We had too much and threw some to the pigeons.
�Don�t feed those diseased flying rats! It is against the law!�
I think about those birds living, breathing, eating, shitting, flying, walking, chatting, crowding, and sleeping. Don�t feed the humans, yet another crime in this city. The derelict isn�t equal to the home dwellers. They are a plague, and so are the pigeons and the grass. Cut the grass down, cut people down, we must cut everything down to size. No flourishing and no growth permitted. Down with life because cutting grass is a REAL job. We all NEED jobs, too, because it is illegal to love what you do. It must be a job, not just work. I spent hours and days working on this story, and my various art projects, my music, my cooking, my clothing. Gardening isn�t a job, it is a hobby. The dead pigeon�s white eyes stare at me and his neck is twisted so much that he lies slumping very unnaturally. Grey feathers orange feet white and blue highlights. And I am the pigeon. My grey clothes and black shoes with tan soles and a blue-highlighted bag and my white eyes and my neck unnaturally bent so far down. We lay together, a sad couple. We wait for the other pigeon to come open our grey coats to take our hearts out and paint footstep pictures in blood and weave bonnets from our entrails. Don�t feed the pigeons so they can eat each other up. Pigeon eat pigeon world out there son, best go to college to learn how to fly and peck and claw your way to the highest roost on top of that corporate building so you can dump on the little people down below. The meek will inherit the earth in the end. The shit-upon expects nothing. The rich wont be rich when riches disappear. The poor sleep anywhere, and eat anything edible. Pigeons can�t read but they fly anywhere they please. Maybe the school teaches us how to fail instead of spreading our wings joyously.

I�m sitting at RoadDawgs. This is the sanctuary from the harsh grey streets and harsh grey suited men. Here in my reddish brown shirt with the yellow tan lighting I sip rich black coffee and write with blue ink on a walnut-colored table. I feel like spreading tan peanut butter on brown wheat bread with red strawberry jelly for my pink tongue and hungrily maroon throat. Music blares from the next room but I only care enough to tap my foot. This city costs everything. Everything here costs money or time because those are the same to these people. I wait for later when I�ll eat cheese and drink wine. I am eating my heart because that girl is coming soon to give a fake smile or a question, or more pain. I hope it will be kind or real. But I am just as pretend as all matter. Not in the false sense of television, faked emotions, and those half-hearted greetings strangers give on the street. My teeth bleed pain. I�m sitting still in my honesty. If money is paramount in this society then I am at the base looking up from a hole I am digging. My hands hurt from the weight of this dirt. This grave might be a hole to plant a seed so a tree will be born that isn�t me. Either way I�m dirty and tired and not sure if I should hate it. Why is dirt so bad? Centuries passed as our ancestors built homes, pots, and utensils from it. It grows our food and lets our dead rest. It is a playground for our children. Even the most restrained find hidden pictures with sticks or pies or tunnels for toys. I am dirty because the term has lost meaning. The natives to America believed we were made of clay. The Israelites believed we were made from dirt. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we all return to the Earth as compost. My skin is soft clay and compost for millions of minute microorganisms to build their cities and gardens upon. Tribes live in the forests of my armpits and beard. I am nothing but a tiny gear in this biological machine; too beautiful to be comprehended in the 1/10th of its entirety called Earth. Nor can I comprehend even 1/10000000000000000000th of the omni-expanding infinite universe. Let alone even 1/0.0000000000000000000001th of my own body�s atoms, divisible into an infinite array of nano, nano quarky particles. I am a soul. The electrical current running through the circuitry of nerves and cerebral wires at light speed. I can�t even operate this machine yet� I merely walk or run or eat or sleep. I cannot leap tall buildings or fly. The electrical current of selfishness is a much harder wall to leap. Step by step, God leads me through a narrow path onto the other side.

I�m sitting, I guess. I feel like lying down or crawling, because that girl gave a fragile remembered smile. We are different people now. An ocean separates us from each other. She wants the arms of so many different guys to tell her she is beautiful to satisfy something that never will end. I want to wrap a rope around 2 tree branches and lay in it like a hammock with my bag hugging me silently. No people to judge me, no cigarettes to hurt me, no music to deafen me, no city noise to annoy me, no girl to hurt me. I am not running away, because I am still here and would remain for a long time, but she is pushing so hard, and so fast. I have $6.50 in my pocket. What do I do with money anyhow? I don�t want it, nor need it. I just want it all to be over and done with. No more drama, no more struggle. Just the open boxcar door and trees flying by and 1000 mile cardboard under me. A dog might sit by me, and just like her I won�t cage her, or collar her, or prevent her from leaving. I will always meditate and pray because that is the language of silence. And that is the only gold I�ll carry. Everything I�ll have on me will have 10 uses, and fashion will be a faded memory.

I�m sitting on tile. The RoadDawgs just did their poetry, but I let the Spirit speak through me. I never really remember what I say afterwards, but don�t care, because I know it was meant to affect someone. Sometimes I feel so alone among humans. I guess that is when humans are against me. That girl never talking to me, and never hanging out with me. Independent of me, but completely dependent on something she can�t control.

I�m sitting in numbness. After the poetry reading that girl and I talked. I told her how the past few days have hurt me, by her not apologizing, or even recognizing the situation, it hurt worse. She told me I didn�t flirt with her. I remember kissing and hugging, and flirtatious glances and our own secret language or hand signals, and glances. I told her I was going to leave in 5 seconds, but waited 30. The streetlight turned off and I took it as my cue. I walked slowly down the block as if weighted by bricks until I fell to my knees and cried longer and harder than ever before. Even more than when my mom told me never to come back. I cried for minutes until a lady bothered me by offering me food. And I cried like I�ve never cried before. I guess it was sobbing. So I went back to where I left her, but she left me without a second thought. I randomly spray-painted a few things here and there to get out my angst. She didn�t care at all. I walked to our old campsite hoping needlessly that she might even care enough to come looking for me there. But she had her space, and I was floating in it.

I�m sitting outside of Carl�s Junior, alone. I slept until foghorns became my alarm. I walked, and walked and walked down Haight Street towards town and a bus picked me up to take me to Church and Market. The N train was running along the track of the J train. J leads to that girl uncaring, and next to someone else. I might be too harsh, but my sickness speaks. People try to tell me I need certain things to get better, but they don�t even know what kind of sick I am. Tunnels don�t grow, or sway. Drugs can�t cure heartache; they only serve to get me through numbly. So I did to ease her passing. I�ll hitch out of here, or catch out. Oregon, Illinois, Florida� Oklahoma, Hawaii� I zipped my liner into my overcoat, and sewed 5 pockets into it and got rid of a backpack. 1 bag is all I�ll need from now on.

I�m sitting in a booth. I used to have money but a poetry event and 2 spangers later I�m back to normal. I was worried I would actually spend the money somewhere.

I�m sitting in a MUNI station.

I�m sitting in a train. Where do I go? It is early enough to go to the squat. They�ll be asleep for a while, and I can slip in quietly. I ache like a user for a drug, but I know like crack it would kill me. But drug pains don�t run to the soul. I am leaving out soon, but I have too much to finish before I can leave. That girl will stay behind with her legions of other men to be suckered into taking her places and buying her things and I wish the best for her. She has to wait for a million things that she only wants because they aren�t me. We dropped everything 5 months ago to travel where the road takes us. But I was new then. Now she�s used me too much, and I�ve lost my shine. I�m not exciting because even though we do exciting things it isn�t enough. I�m not enough for her unending boredom. So she needs her space far from my depressed face. I had a new love for her, despite things she may have lacked. I�m old news.

I�m sitting on a bench in Golden Gate Park. The tennis balls crack an irregular rhythm while sprinklers click slowly back an fourth. Tinkling bike tires whiz by and a flicking flint of a lighter occasionally flames up next to me. It smells pleasant out here. Wet grass, and cool air. The drifting scent of omnipresent cannabis. The tower looms in the distance, half-hidden in the mist like some alien machine from War of the Worlds floating majestically over the mountain. Chatting gibberish floats on air wafting from some passers by. Sun warms my skin as birds shriek and chirp and a dog leash clinks and chinks past. Skateboard wheels grind melodically on the pavement and the wash of traffic can be heard at a distance. Sneakers squeak on the tennis courts and someone claps. The trees all look like giant broccoli and parsley motionless in the quiet breeze. The sun dances on the water droplets and settles in puddles on the pavement and like diamonds sprinkled in the ver so green grass. A man stops to tie his shoe and plods away. The clouds always race by in this city, but seem to linger today. The sky fades from blue to white as it joins the fog falling and creeping on the horizon. So serene. When I went to the squat I slipped in quietly and got my bag. They all lay in motionless slumber dissected by shadows seeping from the blinds. I took out some garbage and quietly kissed that girl on her cheek. The softness of it enveloped me. On the curb waiting for the J I rearranged my bag. I sat next to a reasonably attractive blonde woman, staring forward in silence. I looked at her smooth legs, and posed her a question.
�Doesn�t shaving get old?�
�Yes.�
Silence. I got off and hoped she�d consider just enough to examine the value of shaving. I hiked up to the Safeway to spend the remainder of my food stamps. I got an orange and 8 cereal bars. I gulped down the orange. I smiled at a person walking out, carrying some things in both hands.
�Hey,� he said, �like beer?�
�Yeah, sometimes it can be good for cleaning out your system.�
�I live a block away� wanna have a couple?�
�No, I am going to the park.�

I�m sitting at our campsite, though �our� lost meaning hours ago. I walked here following a trail of pornography shredded into chunks. It led me past a sweet old lady.
�Morning,� we exchanged.
�Pleasant one, too,� we agreed.
The trail led my twisting through paths and trees across the road and up to the hill.
I needed to get rid of some stuff.

I�m sitting on a basketball court waiting for food tickets so I can walk 3 blocks to eat the purportedly best free eats in SF. I just read an issue of the Guardian, to my terror. It told of the events preceding 9-11, leading up to them, and a few to go after it. It told about the Senior Bush�s plan to create 9-11 and the events afterwards to facilitate some giant moneymaking scam. But who cares, we all know this anyway. The food is amazing. I ate, and ate and ate. There was veggie soup, salad, vegetables, pastry, and some spicy meat. I was quickly full.

I�m sitting shoelessly. I feel life working itself out. I know I have to leave soon. I will travel, beatboxing. Looking out of boxcars out into the depths of freedom. People who�ve never left the city never have seen real stars. Streetlights are the same as city stars, fake and distant. Real stars sparkle brilliantly like light through a knit blanket. That girl and I talked last night. Actually I started to, and she walked off. I keep this terrible hope she�ll care. I extrude boredom. I can�t do this to her. I can�t keep terribly loving her into boredom. I can�t speak to her because she can only say something to make it right. Speak when spoken to the philosophy I must adopt to remain sane. It has helped me be at ease. My Savior can easily lift all my stupid selfish stuff. But my selfish complaints are burdens. I heap expectation, and hope, onto that girl like rocks. But I have the Creator of strength living inside of me. I can have tons stacked on me with no problem. No one deserves my burdens, because they can be lifted by someone much stronger than humans. As a teen I was the ear for so many problems, because I had this strength living inside of me. Rape, suicide, OD�s, stabbings, even relationship problems. That is my joy, to hear problems out, and help. I would listen and not tell others, because I had no need to. I told that girl a lot, but she never told me anything. I guess that is why the relationship crashed. She was weighed down because she never opened herself up to me. She only opened herself up to her sister, but not even much then because her sister has caused her enough pain to close that door.

I�m sitting on carpet. 16th and Mission is the forum for us. The poets and prophets can speak loudly to all around. Last night was the most intense of all the nights I have been too. One man brought up the issue of God, and we rose up and spoke boldly. No alluding, no terminology, just the Truth. We invoked the name of Jesus, his father and the Holy Ghost. We are the global tribe of humanity pleading for a return to how life was supposed to be. No government, only God. Anarchy that would have worked. God wanted life to be completely free, and free from evil and pain. The signs of the times are saying that the time is near. The two most important rules are to Love the Father, Son, and Spirit as well as your neighbors. We all came from 1 man, and 1 woman. We are all brothers and sisters, and we will all be accountable.

I�m sitting. That�s all, just sitting. I feel God�s arms wrap around me to keep me from sobbing. Here I am, and soon I will be miles away. I won�t see that girl again. She told me she cared, but not enough to do anything about it. She told me she loved me, but not enough to do anything about it. I know what True Love and Really Caring is. Love is an action verb. God�s son Jesus defined exactly what Love is. Doing anything, even going to death, for someone. Leaving Paradise to be tortured and hated. Ya know, even though I just lost another human being in my life I will go on diligently. I have God, and that is more than most. I would have died for that girl, or walked a million miles for her. I might still, because God hasn�t given up on me though I keep stabbing Him in the back with me shortcomings. This culture knows nothing of Love. Their idea of love is from pop culture, music, movies, and books. They have sayings like �love �em and leave �em.� That isn�t Love. Love makes you sick when it leaves, and defines sobbing in the most intensely personal terms. I left my heart in the grass at UN plaza to be eaten by a pigeon or swept up by a street cleaner. But a heart is just an organ, and Love comes from my soul, which is just energy running through my nerves. I almost shed a tear because I know the sad fate of this city. We�ve all known it since we were children. I just hope the salt can cover all the wounds.