I was walking to BART this morning (OK, afternoon) through the Castro and the Mission, and I felt like I was in a scene in a movie when someone is walking through city streets, and the scenery is just saturated with sound and color. And the character is absorbed in her thoughts, or just distracted, and doesn't notice everything going on around her. Until something catches her eye, and she realizes it's like a scene from a movie. She hopes the cinematography turns out well. These are areas that are always talked up for their "vibrance;" she hopes the red of the storefront brings out the green in her eyes, she hopes the salsa music brings out the sweetness of her ass.

Maybe it was seeing a look of similar sadness in another person that made him hold me on the couch this morning. He was wearing a t-shirt and a towel, in lieu of a bathrobe. I feel like such an asshole talking about how sad I am that my grandfather just died to someone who lost both parents in the same year. He asked me how I was holding up at least twice today. I feel like I don't deserve to be so sad. And I'm not. It comes in waves. We all keep moving forward. We're not spinning around in circles as much as we think we are. Things that happened six months ago are already lost in the fog.

This post turned out so much sadder than I meant it to be. It was a beautiful morning. Um, afternoon. Day.