Wake up in Allston in a strange bed still drunk and in my Sappho costume. Jess and I wander out to the grey street wobbling. Jess and I have the same cowboy boots as Regie Gibson. My car is still in Cambridge.
I am staggering over the bridge crossing the Charles at 8:30 AM on the first of November in a toga and sash and Greek sandals.
Some days it all makes sense. Some days the fabric of space just vibrates with the rhythms of your beating heart. This crazy, oxymoronic universe sure plans some random days.