An old black man with hair like freshly shorn white wool sat beside me at the bus stop. He looked at my boots, then at me, then at my boots again, and in a voice as gravely as old washed-out country roads he said, “whoo, those are the boots of the resurrection Frankenstein!”

And I laughed so hard and heartily, the best I’d had all day. He smiled, revealing a single row of teeth purfled on both borders with blood, so the single row seemed to float midway through his mouth, and you couldn’t tell which end sunk it’s roots into his black gums and which had recently been snacking on freshly cut throat.

He curled his middle two fingers into his fist, so that only the frame of his hand shot out it’s thin fingers, and with pinkie and index he stabbed the page I was reading.

“Eyes,” he said, gesturing with his head to the page. “watch. these ideas splashed onto the page by some spasmodic head.”

Such poetic madness was respite on a day of mundane frustrations. Cast behind me was my dark immaterial form, the heavy emptiness of my debt, which dragged with me at every step. But when darkness projects back, light must be projecting forward, for nature obliterates nothing, only transforms it’s material. This is the strange revelation by which the heartiest, sincerest, levity arrises out of fatalism and headlong plunges into the mystery. The sun of LA beamed from my face. I can’t reconcile these loose ends, and I don’t feel I should. I was so very happy and creeped out.

“Can I be mad as you?” I asked, and that lambs wool head suck int close to my shoulder, and muttered incoherent incantations into the sounding board of my hollow chest.

My bus arrived.
And my next day was nearly perfect, rising in the morning from the intangled arms of a beautiful girl, by afternoon hard at work upon a giant robotic lobster, and into the wee hours of the morning laughing till I cried as we plotted out episodes of our sketch comedy show in the surreal atmosphere of sleep deprevation and paint fumes.