you weren't thinking. fugazian

entered, this goose grey filtered light. the jam box is up, high on blast. no ones home and its quiet beyond the dirtbombs. mick collins is singing that song every damn time. soulful, so damn fine. "is there any tenderness, honey. tell me what. tell me what."  killing time before san jose appears and later,  santa cruz later. dinner date and drinks. an 831 number again, forward motion.