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And this one is yours:

12/1/2002

The curb upon which I sit is hard. It’s hard and it’s cold and it’s uncomfortable. The unevenness of the pavement reminds me of the ocean, particularly when the waves break at the shore–it swells and it curls, just like the waves.

Why do I write about such nonsense?

I suddenly feel compelled to steal that Jeep’s license plate–140-FDF, British Columbia. I want it and he’s already got two. Could he not spare the one? Would he miss it? I think not.

The train has sounded its horn.

The thought of jumping onto a moving train has always appealed to me. I always wanted to know where it would take me. To experience that rhythmic noise as the wheels pass over the tracks; to scream in sync with the sounding bull-horn, announcing our arrival; to feel the constant cold on my face, making it impossible to sleep.

So what stops me now from running and making that giant leap onto that train passing me now? What holds me back and keeps me grounded? You, sitting next to me on this cold, hard curb. I’m so glad for you.