Leaving.

There is a dried-out patch of dirt I'll be drawn back to before I die; a cluster of heat, frustration, and poverty. No matter how modern I make myself, I'll only ever be that boy in the dirt, fighting off gnats while pretending to be somebody: pretending, but never dreaming.

I'm already getting nostalgic about leaving because that's just how I am; I'm a real pussycat when it comes to that kinda shit. But since I'm leaving on my own terms, having gotten what I wanted, I can look back with no regrets. Well. Not NO regrets. But let's be honest - where I came from, if you told me that someday I'd eat a steak at Peter Luger's, play a set at CBGB's and bang an Asian softcore porn star in a vestibule next to the Turkey's Nest, I'd think you were making up stories about some superhero on Jupiter. So fuck it.