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I am existential crisis. I sit in a leather chair at a bookstore and talk with my mother. I want to make sure she is sober. I want to make sure she is ok. I just talk about myself instead. I tell her what I'm thinking, almost. SO i say goodbye and I walk down the street. The sun is down. It is cold. Cars drive past and their headlights bloom. It might be tears. It might be my eyes quiting on me. Strangers and their children look at me. They know. They can see it. I got rid of most of my stuff. I left some of it in the care of others. I took plains and buses to get 2,011 miles away, the long way. And what do I do? I still ask if you would like a PRESIDENTE margarita. I don't play guitar. I play it less, which I didn't think was possible. I don't write. I barely even think. Except for tonight. This light won't change. I don't change either. I have to cross the street. I have to make money. I have to pay rent. I have to be an adult. I am existential crisis. I can't change my mind. I can't give up. I cant retreat. I can't deem the whole experiment a failure. I can't try a different trajectory. I can't try a different location. I can second guess. And I do. And I will, no matter what happens. I'm standing on a corner waiting for a light to change, but I'm also riding in a car in the dark of the desert with a song playing, and I'm sitting in the back of a van on a nameless highway, and I'm looking out the window of an suv at some homes I'll never own and wondering why people kill and thinking I could never feel that way. Till I do. I am existential crisis. It shows on my face. My tables and coworkers think I'm tired. They ask if I'm sad. They ask if I'm drunk. They ask if I'm hungover. And I am. But not the way they get hung over. I forget to ask people how they want there meat cooked. Instead I standing on a balcony in the hills or lying naked in a car or screaming with all my heart or being screamed at. 365 days ago. I am a year older, a year of difference. But it feels like I just read a book about it. I get an extra day this year. I'll fuck it up like the rest. Not the rest of the world, but the rest of my days. I am existential crisis.