santa monica/sawtelle

and sometimes you wanna collapse. sidewalks, grass, sand, people walking their dogs at night, fat kids on scooters zooming along your crooked line of sight. you're often saved by simply listening to someone else's story or lighting someone up with a little energy. an irish pub or a place in santa monica reminiscent of the roaring twenties in t-shirts and miniskirts, he said i was on fire a couple nights before and i seemed to recall something about a french accent, candle on head, sprint home. then i was talking to some girl about napkins and heritage and before long it's god and desperation, how we relate to ourselves, others, why it's not just a personified man with a white robe and beard and i made a joke about the pool table and told her i'd see her later on because the night was young and i was drunk and never assume you're going to meet someone again just because the two of you aren't strangers anymore.