august 14, 2002

112 Hyde St

I smoke a cigarette to your memory, Janis.  I can hear you singing down that silent street just to fill up the space between those lonely pretty pricey apartments.  are you still vibrating somewhere here or somewhere else?  Or are your atoms as diffused as my ghosts (pets and grandparents, Hamlet's fathers all of them)?  Why is this memento mori so ugly?  The Haight feels like Stonehenge, cool and magic profaned by too many tourists.

then i took the bus to golden gate park.