locked in place, on my soiled sheets, I never thought it would come to this, reliving the moments that I shared with you on the streets. I remember the time I sat with you in front of the old magazine shop, the one that sold the copies of The Anarchist's Cookbook, it was 3:32am, the pedophiles, willing to pay, circling the bock over and over like some kind of ritualistic dance, over and again. Where do these people get their energy? It was the time you drove me home only i had you drop me off a block away to keep you from finding out where i was living. In my mind i trace the corner of the street where you and Matt Monson got assaulted by black guys. To scare them you chanted witchcraft spells in spanish to them, it didn't work. I wish i could be there for you i wish i could sleep and then i could some how help you but i can't.