I can't think. I can't think. I'm on Greyhound and I'm going crazy again. It's making me feel like I'm doing something again. Like I'm okay. I'm going.

I've never understood meditation or the attraction of an empty mind. Either everything moves around me or I move. I spent three months learning happiness with a wall across my eyes and my mouth and my gut. Now it's the easiest thing in the world.

It's easier, I think, to travel in California. I want to travel east because I don't know how to. I don't know how to travel in cornfields and pigfields and swamps. I suppose it's all road. But I've been surprised a lot since I left California. I want everyone else to be fascinated by California, to learn my version of desert, of fog, of farm, of city. I'll travel the rest of the world if they'll travel California.

The moon is usually in the other direction. I didn't mean to go to the other side of the moon, but it makes sense.

I know where we are. It's dark, but I saw a sign a while back for a place I drove past looking for burritos. Remember? I know. I know where we are. It doesn't stop me from imagining where we could be. I am world weary, or at least pleased with the possibility of it. And I picked roses there, in that light. I picked roses desperately because they felt like love. Like the opposite of never.

It's also funny how we become things. It's not just your perceptions you can't trust, not just faraway lights and the other side of the freeway and the girl sitting in front of you who you don't dare to touch. It's the movement of the seat under you. It's the book you're reading. Your whole mind. You become them so easily, and your perceptions aren't even yours. Either you trust nothing or everything, and it's not really an or. Perhaps it's strange, but it's not worth thinking about most of the time either.

Most of the time it takes a little while for me to recognize my reflection.

Everything's disappeared. I think if I threw my watch three feet forward I wouldn't be able to find it again. Out the window is a Walmart that doesn't exist. If I stretch my imagination I can believe in the trucks going the other way, going north. But south looks like fog right now, with a red light somewhere I can't see.

Rumble. Bread. Knowledge of plums. Spazes. Stinkers. Headphones. Plastic bags. Leaving a city where I taught myself to live. Time. Continuity. Dreams and the lack thereof. Moon left behind.

This bus is full of dead people. I just saw a ghost, and yes it shocked me and made me shudder, but it was warm. I remember how warm. I remember falling asleep with that warmth. A woman brushed my shoulder and I shivered. They're dead, you know. A bus of dead people rolling south. Sometimes I really don't know what to think. Oh, but I can feel. They walked into Walmart and came out dead, but I've survived again. I'm on the bus again.

Yes. I say yes. By tomorrow I will be small lights, glass, watercolor bleeding into gray around the edges, beautiful. It's moving fast but I open my fingers and hold it all. This is the realest dream.

I am the movement, the time that connects notes to complexity and turns them into language.

I will pull up the sun with my pen. Watch.