July 13, 2024:

The light is right.
Through the windows I can feel my home.

The smell is absent.
These windows are too far from the coast.
To be exact — that is perfect —
we'd have to add the very fine faint tang of salt sea spray.

These, plus the sounds of gulls.
Then we'd be home.

July 12, 2024:

He likes being alone.
He likes being with people.

Where is the balance?
Where to find balance?
Is there balance to be found?

Balance is a myth.
Perhaps, an unimportant one.

He sucks at balance.

July 11, 2024:

The weather was lovely, the light was beautiful.
It was my home, but it wasn't.

The roads are the same, but the canyons are filled.
There are trolleys and gentrification, but the river and the backs of malls are crowded with homeless.
The trolleys are convenient but rife with commotion by the mentally disturbed.

To be "home",
to have been exiled for so long,
to be very and I do mean extremely conscious of the limited time remaining for me to make my contribution.
Or to fail at that.
Mostly, to be "home".