While investigating an inert folder on my old ibook, I embarrassingly uncovered inebriated expressions originating in April of '07:
Sleeping in a bed should never be considered a luxury. Thousands of millions of poor de-privileged persons win my sympathy. Sympathy! You say with a lofty dart. Well, I do and I don’t. Street sleeping is foreign to me- foreignly frightening. I speak of something not streetish, but simply a sleep in which no bed is available. Sometimes this sleep forces a creativity and ingenuity that stimulates grey matter in the dark. Don’t turn on too many lights. People are sleeping. Strangers are a-slumber in their beds. I imagined their apartment to be carpeted. Hope-prayed for a vacuumed cozy rug in which to unravel my sleeping bag and cushion my bruisable hip bone with the delicacy of thousands of fabric Lilliputians rocking me to a dream of back home. Instead I am hopeless. Soreness creeps into my thoughts. My neck reminds me of a week ago when scouting a merge in the van became painful. My spine recites an anatomy lesson a chiropractor once taught and my shoulders, they simply dip.
I have been here before. I will prevail. I am a Buddhist. I took a class on Buddhism. I know how Buddhists do it. I remember something about a Buddhist in a video and a nail and a stick. It is late, I am... this is easy.
I like to be near a wall or two. Tucked into a corner where there is minor midnight traffic. I like when chair cushions can be removed and curled upon....
Who knows where I was planning on going with that one. Just out of curiosity I cross-checked the last date that file was opened on my computer with the back catalog of the spinto blog and it seems that maybe this was written while on tour with The Changes and Dios Malos, and the only crash pad that jumps to mind from that tour is when we slept in a concrete broken glass factory.