Coachella

Jim, now we cannot ever. Bitter
that we cannot ever have
the conversation that in
nature and alive we never had. Now not ever.
- from Half-Light, by Frank Bidart 

I thought I should write this down, exactly because no one would ever read this

I wiped the patio table clean with spritzes of glass cleaner and my old boxer shorts - its patterns of skulls on black. My face and ears are flush with caffeine - either I overdosed myself with caffeine (I had a grande iced Americano and two cups of brewed coffee) or I'm just sensitive to caffeine. Or both. My head aches, and it hums the way the fridge hums at midnight. How I'm feeling now is exactly like how I felt when I smoked a batch of bad weed: my eyes want to sleep but my brain keeps on firing synapses. I Googled for reviews on Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities. My thoughts are murky, pessimistic: scholarships abroad is my only way out of this country. I'm irritable. I don't know what I want to do. When you're a parent you shouldn't put time on reflecting these things - there simply is no time for these. Yet there I was this afternoon at Starbucks re-reading Principles of Marketing... just because I felt like it. Because I feel like I'm on a dead end. It's a good day to die, I told myself a while ago.