I know this much is true:

Warm winters. Strong, bitter coffee after morning sex. Sunlight upon dirt. Rain upon an old beater across the street. The music that was in your head in bed making its way through your speakers. Words running across a screen. Remembering the ocean at night in the '80s while my first girlfriend blasted The Cure on her boom box: Realizing that 'Fascination Street' was about getting a blow job, her laugh, the sweet explanation to her on the sand. Being behind my computer in the Seattle summers, letting the water warm in the Sound, thinking about my board, the islands. A dog-eared copy of Ask The Dust. Sitting in Los Angeles watching people hunt each other. Walking through the East Village in summer eating fat chunks of seedless watermelon. The eyes of dogs. The skin of Europe. The slicing away of death through the tapping of the keys. The sunsets in Tombstone, in Mexico, in Miami. The high moon over Austin and Vegas, the dead smell of Fisherman's Wharf. Orange blossom. Feeling your skin rise in the middle of a poem.