I am a man of many directions. I edit my way through another draft of a manuscript. I play violent computer games. I read local, state, national, and world news. I subject the secret motel sound system to experimental noise, jazz, folk music from southern Laos, and now the Raveonettes. I read and reply to the occasional email. I work my way through another bottle of wine, the only kind of work I enjoy. I do laundry and remind myself that I should buy more shoes and clothing soon. I think about those on the periphery of my life. The closest people in my life are no closer than the periphery. I wonder what it would be like to be a different person. I am glad I am not retired, unemployed, or independently wealthy--I would not last long without a job and would likely drink myself to death. Today is the 75th birthday of the Golden Gate Bridge. It's been a long time since I've been up close to the bridge. I always wonder about those who have jumped to their deaths. I think about the things people leave behind, the quiet of carpet and the grey light through hotel windows. So quiet you can hear the cracks expanding in the concrete overpass. The way a grey afternoon makes me sweat and shiver and nearly pass out if I don't soften my head with motel sheets or curtains. I wash my face with dirty water. The lights are powered by headache. All I want is a cool walk in the fog after dark. And then to fall asleep as softly as dust hitting the carpet.