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I woke up today, grabbed an old notepad, and penned out the following words:

Last night I was singing in my sleep, and I thought of you. I thought of all the things you've done to hurt me and the distance that has come between us. I tried to find the right words to fix everything that went wrong, but everything that ever went wrong was everything that ever was. There are no words that could erase this.

I knew when I wrote it that I wasn't writing to any particular person; I wasn't dreaming of any particular person either. I just wanted to express my waking feelings with the first words that came from my sleepy head. When I look at it now, I feel like I was writing a breakup letter to who I used to be.

I just came back from taking a stroll down to where I thought the street ended. To my surprise, it turns a sharp corner, and winds it's way up into the hills. I climb to the top, absorbing the mystery of a road at nightfall I had never been down before. With high-priced condos bunched next to evergreens on a narrow, curvy road, it looks like a combination of the Hollywood Hills and a Colorado mountain road. To the right I see glimpses of downtown Portland between shadows of trees. To the left is where the road cuts into a hill covered with tangled shadows of ivy. Further up the road I pick up scents that you never find downtown, because if they're there, they'll be mixed with a thin layer of city smell that destroys the purity of the sensation. Flowers in bloom and cookies baking, and I swear I detect a hint of marijuana here, in this place where I'm expecting to see a speed-walker in a designer jumpsuit burst out from the shadows at any second, wearing headphones and listening to the latest yuppie motivational jogging tape.

Then, I get to the top of the hill, and spy two punk-looking kids walking towards me. Their presence reminds me that I'm still practically in shouting distance of downtown, even though I've seen similar looking kids in gated communities.

I turn right, and walk out on to what is known as Suicide Bridge. Below, the light rail trains are emerging from and disappearing into the tunnel, carrying cargos of people to and from their destinations. In front of me, a man smokes a joint, quickly walking away as I approach. A personal joint and a clear starry night with a view of downtown, does life require anything else? I can almost see him trying to jump outside of his head as he walks away, trying to view himself from the outside and disect his own thoughts. I've already accomplished this of his thoughts, and I'm not even high (unless you take into account the hundreds of feet between myself and the highway below.) I wish somebody would disect my thoughts.

Across the bridge and through another unkown neighborhood, this time with nice criss-crossing streets, and I'm back in the shadow of my building. Before I go in I stop at the corner store and buy a large beer to celebrate. What am I celebrating? Today I signed a roommate to my lease, which solves the problem of not being able to make rent next month. I'll tell you more about her later.