I still have another deadline, and I’m late working on the piece.  It’s on Kerouac.  So I’m just going to kind of let loose and speak to you in a way that I hope you’ll be able to hear my voice — free of pretension and fear.  Tonight, I stepped outside of my apartment, and I walked down Redondo Avenue.  The fog had settled on the streets, and the street lamps were buzzing in the moisture, glowing like vibrating mirrors.  Here is what I thought about as I walked down the street.  Am I going to meet my deadline?  Can I survive as a writer?  Will the dog in the glasses store think I am intruder?  Have a lived a life worth living?  Have I burned and raged as much as possible, demanding the night sing and the sun scorch the Earth?  Have I been true to myself?  Have I listened to the voices of others who are intruders?  Have I listened to the voices filled with love?

The streets were like something pulled straight out of a Noir movie, and I felt, suddenly, like I was meant to be in this exact spot, in this exact time, in this exact world without a fear or a care or a penny.  I can hear Long Beachers talking out their windows, eating dinner, picking up cellphones, and diving into the unknown miracles of the Wednesday night.  A woman, who I see smoking cigarettes outside to avoid the dismay of her child, passes me.  And I am alone here, wandering in the night, searching for nothing and no one and time goes and goes and goes, and I am alone.

Here comes a car, splashing through a puddle.  Vroom, vroom, vroom.  The sound of traffic and the washing machinery of emptiness.  I am tired.  These are my thoughts.  You can look at them how you want.