I left my heart

Why is it that I always feel like writing when traveling?

Why am I asking you?

And who in the Hell are you anyway?

I’m flying home from San Francisco. I can barely compress my arms together to type in this tiny little seat built for a man with scoliosis. Leaving behind some work, very little play, and one fantastic fucking city. I always feel a little sad when I fly out of a different city. I was incredibly happy to leave Tulsa, and yet, the excitement was accompanied with sorrow. I suppose I don’t like to leave things behind.

I didn’t spend enough time there. It’s truly a spectacular city. The colors. The wind. The water. If only I had more money than God. I would leave my heart in San Francisco. I would still move to Seattle, mind you. A “weekend” pad would be a treat though.

Isn’t it odd how 2oo plus people can crowd into incredibly close quarters, in a tube with wings. And an engine. Go up to 35,000 feet for about an hour, then set down again in a different place?

I’m just sayin’