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It is insane to me how a place can so wholly rule you from the inside. Sometimes I feel like I am underwater here. Sometimes I feel like there is no water for miles. Everything in these islands and extremes. I can’t even talk around you let alone get around you. This place is too small. And my wants are too big. And my needs are too few met. All I do is think about leaving and all I do is stay. 

This time of year these feelings feel right for me, because when the streets looks like a jungle and the sun never sets it seems right that I’m alone. I’m interested in the pretty girls that follow you around and what you give them. They look at you like you’re capable of something I know you’re not. And they have big eyes and eager hands and look silly to me. I’m interested in how long it takes for a coal to turn to diamond. 

Last night a woman told me I’d perfectly distilled heartache into the right string of words and I told her I’d had a lot of practice. When I think about Idaho in my next life, I’ll think about being in my attic alone and watching the door of restaurants. I’ll write a lot about all of this, so much so, that it will grow tired and the feelings will feel artificial because I’ll take them apart and put them back together so many times they will need splints. 

I read an essay in the bathroom last night about making eggs and walking around barefoot in my house here. It all felt like a very full circled version of my life here: the motel room and reading about a life I am about to hang on the coat rack. A friend gave me twenty pesos last night for beer in Mexico and all I can think about now is getting kissed on the beach by someone who has nothing to do with this place.