Tomasita, Jessie and I rode around La Jolla, Pacific Beach and Clairemont through "Candy Cane Lane" in hopes of discovering the most light laden homes. It's such a strange custom to string lights outside of a building. No 2 shades of blue or white are the same; turquoise seems the most beautiful, then cobalt blue seems much more soulful the next. Electric whites. Abstract patterns and familiar archetypes litter lawns in trees and skirting or criss-crossing rooftops. Is it weird that this scenic drive churned up thoughts of death?
I never believed in Santa Claus. My father saw to that. As I ride this train out, my childhood seems like a small blip behind a tunnel at least 1 quarter through. Ahead, everything seems cloaked; behind, fog swallows memories in tact but whole. All I can feel is motion.
Anthony says that Santa Claus is retarded. But I think I actually know what he means. It can be ridiculous.
I am sleepy and though I doubt there was a point to any of this, any semblance of one is completely gone. So. Bye.