[4:01 a.m.] : [2013-01-19]

There is a phone in the house. A land line. It is only here so we have a way to connect to the internet. No one uses it. No one uses land lines any more. They have become out of date. They've become discarded.

Still, from time to time it rings. The ring is the exact same ring my old land line cordless had before it died of alcohol poisoning.

I used to live for that ring. Every time, every damn time, it would ring I would drop everything and race for that phone. To pick it up and say hello and pretend like I didn't hope more than anything else in the world that it was you calling.

I used to die by that phone.

It's funny, in a way, the phone in the house will ring and I tense up ready to pounce. If asleep I'm half out of bed before I start to wake up. The phone rings and I have to tell my body to stop, to stay.

The thing is, even if you did call I would probably be nasty. If somehow you had that number I would still feel justified in saying things that I am sure I would mean. I'd try to make you cry. Cause I know playing nice gets me nowhere and either way I'll never see my stuff again and either way in the end I'd only feel like shit.

This was written at some point in 2008 while I was living in the house at the top of Moeser where I stood in the kitchen one night and watched Angel Island burning across the bay.

[P] [A] [F] [K] [G] [P] [D]