Introduction

I can’t tell you much about San Francisco, but it’s not a city. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a neighborhood, or county, or anything like that. You can’t put those sorts of titles on San Francisco, because it’s always changing, which gives that indefinite, historical vibe that everyone wants to experience. San Francisco is a story. It’s Love. It’s Diversity. It’s racism and tolerance. It’s a success story. It’s like the first drag of a cigarette that lasts for the entire cigarette. It’s an infinite smile in an infinitesimal solidity on a rock with corners. San Francisco has no corners, except maybe the Tenderloin, which is ironic, because it’s in the center. San Francisco is the Elixir of beauty and there’s more to come. San Francisco is my Home.The streets of the City are covered with thick cement, the bricked buildings block the pacific wind, and the sun is shadowed by the earth’s own innate qualities that have grown to become my friend. Tea smoke was filling my room and draining out my shitty, rackety window that only closes diagonally, and I thought to myself, it takes smoke to laugh; it takes a broken window to cry, and in walked Jewell.
“What’s up?” I said.
“funny you ask that, because absolutely nothing is up.” He walked in and sat on the couch, after going into the kitchen and putting on tea, non-caffeinated, of course.
“Good to hear…I love being useless. What are you making?”
“Tea.”
“Caffeinated?”
“No.” with that as-nice-as-possible, what-the-fuck-do-you-think tone that Jewell is just fucking perfect at. I clicked my tongue against my teeth for emphasis of disaprovement.
“Well, fine. “ I sarcastically snarled, “I didn’t want any anyway,” proceeded to meander, slouchingly to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, proceeded back to the couch, sat down, opened it with a harmonica on account of I left the bottle opener in the kitchen.
“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed. “When did we get that?”
“Picked it up on the way home.” The cycle repeated.
“Psh. Fuck tea…can you hand me the harp?” He had plans, for the night, as did I.
After the brewski, I left. Alas, I had a prior engagement. Ah, Lucy. She’d been howling my brain for weeks, and I had a date tonight. Oh she hits me right. I dig her and the world is round, and turns me on…her too. I swear she’s secretly Johanna*, that illuminating muse always lurking in the shadows of your thought, you can never get a glimpse of her beauty, she’s always hidden, even from her lovers, haters, crucifix makers, tools, fakers, fools, and masturbators, giants, brains, she’s fucking insane, and that’s why I Don’t know her , and that’s why I’m so intoxicated, intimidated, and mentally eliminated. She’s always there, that Johanna image. The lights of the bar are nowhere but behind her, and the foam in her beer is a weightless circle, and the table isn’t sturdy enough to hold her ideals. She’s famous, and unknown, a code and a code-breaker. If Words could explain her, the definition would be a dictionary long. Her, her, her. When I take a walk, I can’t escape her. When I sleep in my bed, she’s always somewhere close. When I sit, lonely, she Looks at my eyes, trying to figure out why I’m not happy. Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach her, San Francisco.
“Well, Jonny,” Peircing eyes, knowing smirk, “What do I represent to you?”