I take a trip. We go to L.A. because that's what you do. You have to leave a place to figure out if it's here you really live - whether or not it's home. It's hot. The sky is a wall of blue. I want to press my fingers into its glossy weight. We're driving back to Oakland, and when I look up and breathe, it's heavy; as though fiction and reality have blurred through the translucent backs of one another. A double landscape that could swallow me whole. Vacation is always a too-fragile boundary. It leaves its psychic residue everywhere. The fantasy of the good life and the reality of the lived one, jumbled into useless, staticky lint.