“There is no there there.”

There are no seasons here. Only fog and sun and a month of rain. The rain only if we’re lucky. Because if the rain fails. We’ll drink from the toilet. Wash in the toilet. Play in the toilet. And once a week we’ll flush the toilet.

They’ll collect it, filter it, send it back to us. Dirty water made dirty.

They ban cigarettes and circumcision and toys in happy meals but please don’t ask for the bus to arrive. We huddled masses, in sandals and flats, struggling down Market and up Van Ness, yearning to be free.

At least the weed is good. And cheap. And legal.

But even that isn’t enough. Not anymore.

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