I want to write something that is beautiful and eloquent but it is too damn hot and the streets stink like urine. No one is stopping to talk or tell stories because the wall of heat is so deflating that we are pulled inside our bodies and confused. Russ and I drink beer on the step and try to solve all the turmoil that is in us and in the street and in the world. We realize that although we may not have any answers we are suffering from a form of contentness that is spilling out of us both. We are happy with our choices even though at times they are self defeating and un-recognized.