Helicopters are circling and the night breeze is gentle on my bare shoulders. There might have been an earthquake an hour ago. I do love Los Angeles.
It would be nice if I could lie down on the floor, kick and scream, like a two-year-old, if I could spit it's not fair like a seven-year-old, if I could sneer my life sucks like a fifteen-year-old, or moan pray that I die like an eighty-five-year-old. Instead it's all breathe in, breathe out, rueful smiles, looking for angels in trees, being mindful of the goosebumps on my skin, reaching for ghosts.