Dear David,

It’s late here man and I’m still awake. Leni’s asleep. Since I left I keep seeing the same pictures in my mind. Maybe George was right about the xanax in the water. Or maybe he was just saying it cause he was lonely.

I didn’t get to meet you but I know you. I truly do. It was the lonesome hidden smile in the mornings. I think you are too kind. You have kindness in your eyes, the painful kind. 

I am sure you live in a small quiet house near the school fence and you have a cuddly cat. Do you miss your parents, man?

I really often do. Next time you go out in those quiet afternoons feel the breeze on the top of the palm trees. Please, embrace the sense of isolation. Not the kind that brings despair but one that makes you want to gaze at the ocean.

I am next to you, buddy... when you lose yourself in the highways. And I wish I was Bodhi.

Is it daytime or night as you read this? Your clothes have a smokey scent but they smell like flower too. Just like the scent of my aunt’s house fireplace that I used to visit in the summer.

But these are not moments of glorified tattoos and self triumphs but rather moments for “Karen” songs.

And when you lie on your bed facing the stars of your ceiling everything in the room sparkles. And unlike me, you might get some sleep. And I hope you dream what you want to dream of.

I’m sitting next to you, on that wooden bench in SM watching the ocean.

But don’t wish for something to become past. Instead, wish for the stars not to perish.

Distant red lights glimmer on your beautiful face. And if it gets cold later you could come by my place.

You used to smile back then, like you sometimes do when J. Buckley echoes in a distant radio.

Let’s go again next time, David. Cross the rails once again. And you will be River. So, you will be lost as only the good ones are and we are left hurt by random encounters.

Let’s walk again at the pier. I’ll catch you again cause you are a good guy. Sorry I did not talk to you buddy. I now know I should have.

So, I’m sending you some pictures. They do not say much to me when I look at them. Maybe they will to you. I had nothing else to send
you. Think of them as postcards from this place you live with the friends we lost and we will find again.

You see, my friend, few of us wish for the stars not to perish

Dedicated to the homeless people of Los Angeles.