You cheat away the lonely by heading south along the coast with the dog that cries. He’s also the dog that reads you like a bag of bacon.
And it’s how you can be happy for six days and life suddenly takes on the color of amber, smelling vaguely of cedar and vanilla, or of the heady $75 Le Labo shower gel you find in the bathhouse of your airbnb.
None of this is real. Your everyday world has the whiff of bananas and basement cement. It’s where the lonely resides. You take it into the fine sailcloth of your lungs and exhale through your mouth. It moves you gradually along. Lonely is the air you breathe. 8.19