Backstreets, Sunset Cliffs.
You walk like Perseus through the labyrinth, only without a sword, with no monster to kill, with no golden thread, and no hope of Ariadne awaiting your escape.
Turning corners in the dark.
Waves eating a cliff; lights piercing the black.
Winter air so clear you swear it's never been breathed by any breath before yours.
And the sadness of being old and alone enters your lungs like the darkness enters the sky.
Perseus never waited for the phone to ring.
— 11/25/83