it's a john coltrane kind of night

The view out my window right now is of a thick, foggy sky, colored a burnt sienna, and the orange glow of older lights bouncing softly off the slick street. All is quiet, contained, noir...perfect conditions for me to fall asleep and dream the old dream of jazz.

It seems I'll go home no matter what. But this town will always hold a certain charm for me, one upon which I can't exactly place my finger; I can't explain it. On paper, it shouldn't. In practice, it can.

I sometimes wish I could enjoy red wine as much as other people.

I sometimes wish this place wouldn't let me go that easily.

I nearly always wish that I could strike a fear into the heart of every attractive stranger I meet for the first time, the fear that their thoughts wouldn't let go of my image easily, or ever; the fear that the image of me in their minds will keep them awake at night; the fear that every attractive stranger strikes in the hearts of other attractive strangers or friends or acquaintances with just a glance.

I want to be wanted, even if I don't always want back.

I wish you would read this and not let go of me in your own thoughts.