If I knew where to begin I wouldnt be very good at this...

..We left sometime Thursday. It was fucking hot but just bearably so. There was a slight emptiness to the heavy air as if God or whoever is in charge of such things had freed up a little bit of oxygen for the coming weekend of inevitable events. I really feel like the past three days were supposed to happen exactly the way they turned out. I feel like it was a steady train the six of us were ticket holding passengers on. The drive there was our triumphant escape like as if it was somehow us unintentionally setting up an alibi for the horrible events that were in the works back at home.

The miles stretched on like the opening bars of a full orchestral concert. It was us tuning The Great Instrument for the Great Escape we were on. Nico rode passenger, his snores pacing the high speed escape for me as I pushed towards LA at breakneck speed, daring anyone and anything to try and stand in our way. If someone would have shot a picture of that high speed flight it would have been timeless; a peacefully sleeping kid keeping metronome and me right next to him pushing 210 horses forward westward like a crazed teeth gritting minoxidil junkie, his eyes bulging, his knuckles white against the black leather wheel. I knew halfway to Barstow that this weekend was important. How important it would be was still up in the air...