I feel like a man possessed. I find myself drifting back down 17th St. in Denver. A place I lived only briefly, but where I felt a rare connection in a city that has the depth of an also-ran Dubai. I write for hours in cafes and bars, and look back on what I’ve written with surprise and déjà vu. The writing is strange to me, but vaguely familiar.
I must look borderline insane, my head resting on the back of my hand, inches from the paper. I drink coffee until I can feel my heartbeat in my eyeballs. And then I switch to beer to try and balance it out. I’m no good after two drinks, but I drink slow, and feel the slow warmth of reassurance spreading through my brain. It’s not a novel feeling anymore, but there’s more pleasure in the familiarity then I would have ever guessed when I was young.