The first year I lived in LA, I sort of sleepwalked around in the sunny smog, constantly wondering what George was doing. Thinking of his life more than my own. In hindsight, that’s pathetic as fuck, but it’s also an honest account of my mental space. The only thing worse than doing a pathetic thing is pretending as though that’s not what you’re doing. I’d avoided, numbed, tried to outrun the pain… it was time to finally accept it and try to learn something from it.
