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I'm dizzy as I hit it again, not sure if I'm sitting or standing. My mind is a thick soup of laughter teetering perilously on the edge of panic. I reach down to find a pocketful of sand and not much else. The dramamine helps but there is still that screeching. Just trying to follow the coastline home, to lay down in that bed and feel safe for a minute or two. Another sip and I might even sleep. That pigeon hole isn't easy to find though. Getting there is even harder. The winding path, it's often easier just to park along the way. Get out and walk to the shore, have a quick cigarette and watch the waves. Pure indifference. It always seems to be route 1. Iceland to New Zealand to Australia and home. Back out to California to find that coastline. There isn't anything like the west coast. It's fulfillment and wonder and beauty. At midnight in the mountains on the tip of the Kaikoura Peninsula. Glacier water pumped into a showerhead placed high on the wall in the middle of a concrete stall in the middle of a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. My head is pounding as the water cascades over again and again. The lights of oncoming cars smashing into my eyes. My feet begin to rip so I place them back into my boots. Barefoot and wet but quiet. I can hear the waves outside the van as another car passes in and out of the night. Gentle rumbling overhead, a banana will get me through. Tomorrow I'll have some relish. I've never seen so many curtains in my life. Not a single ounce of sun allowed in or out. 45 minutes later and my toes have thawed and now have the warm tingling feeling that you get when you have a snowball fight for too long right at the wet end of winter. You have to cross ‘em to really remember that they're there. Time slowly expires as the nights turn into weeks. The days stay the same and suddenly it's a year. You're 26 and tired but nowhere near finished. At least you hope, as that tractor trailer comes around the bend at 120k. His sneeze could be your funeral. As you flip dive through the windshield and down the hillside what would you be thinking? Not bad. Shit. Well done. I fucked it. 50/50 but only 20/200. But is that really the correct measurement? Is it the number of tricks or that one you stomped bolts? That one you remember forever. Until your heart gives out and your brain disintegrates. Then it's just you and forever kickin it while god of wine plays on repeat. I bet heaven tastes like dramamine.