The sun murdered the weak with impunity. It was 107 degrees in the shade of dead trees. Perfect temperature for a California cakewalk. A lost and confused old man in a scarcely running truck stopped to ask for directions. I stoically directed him to the end of the line. A familiar window lost a years-old picture. I pilfered a hidden record store for vinyl reminders. Their vibrations too dense in my tiny shelter. My temples filled with absentee rainclouds.

10:58 a.m. - 2017-06-19