Southern California morning, the bums are staggering out of wet bushes draped with spider web trails and damp pant cuffs, scratching brown beards and wondering where their life went, and how did they get to this and whether they’d ever touch a woman again and oh, for one last grasp of warm teenage breasts they felt in the back of a car, high school homecoming night maybe, 1985, or somewhere near there, an elegant young body or smooth long side and the eyes of shivering nervous, of a woman that wants you because you are good and you are worthy and you make her feel good. But never again and they are resigned to that nothin’ but dollar coffee at 7-11 and another day waiting for handouts and hobo death.
She says it doesn’t matter what; run, hide, retreat, surrender or your apartment will be your grave.
Michael: I have a dick on my face don’t I?
“No, I don’t think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”- Gone With The Wind