I lied.

I didn't go to sleep. I downloaded a few mp3s and then came here. Now I'm writing a diary entry. It's 1:57am right now. I should be in bed. I should be asleep. I'm going to wake up in about 4 hours.

I don't wanna sleep.

I don't wanna wake up in 4 hours.

I wanna run away. Pack all the necessary gear into one huge duffel bag--necessary gear being, of course, 3 katanas (we'll pretend for the sake of argument I already have the 2 that are currently en route here), 1 ninja-to, 1 knife, 1 subwoofer and 2 tweeters, 1 laptop computer, about 250 CDs, my skis, my blackbook, a huge bottle of advil, and my cats. And...yeah, that's all I can think of right now.

That's all that matters to me at 2am, apparently.

Oh, and I'd bring my pager along. And my credit cards, bank cards, phone cards, safeway card, blockbuster card, health insurance card. But only because I'd put it behind the rear wheel of my car and back out of the parking space in a very precise, very straight line so as to run over the pager not once, but twice.

I think it'll be quite dead after the first time, but just to be sure, I'll crush it a second time.

The demise of the credit cards will come later.

Then I'll roar down the road with my only possessions thrown into the backseat and my cats wandering around the spacious (yeah right) interior of my car, yowling and puking because they're carsick. I'll stop by Sara's apartment and honk until the lights come on in at least 10 different windows and then I'll jump out of the car and leave the engine running, pound up the stairs and hammer down her door.

She'll be sleepy and beautiful. She say, "What the fuck, Damon?"

And I'll say, "I'm going away, far away, and I'm never coming back. Are you coming with me?"

And she'll say, "This is insane."

And I'll say, "Are you coming with me?"

And she won't say a word. She'll put her hand in mine and we'll leave and we won't even shut the door behind us. Down the stairs and into the car, where we'll share a single steamy wordless conspiratorial kiss over yowling cats and the stick shift and the handbrake and the artful sprawl of little plastic cards on the ground.

I'll back out of the drive, then, all the way backwards until I back into the street. My fender will scrape the asphalt and sparks would fly, and then we'd zoom off. I'd take the 101 north and I'd pop a CD into the stereo and we'd blast tunes all the way to San Francisco, where I'd take my last look at the greatest city in the world.

Then we'd take the 80 east to I-5, and swing south from there. The sun'll come up with us in the middle of the Central Valley, and we'll stop somewhere and rob an Arco gas station, just take the money and three bottles of mountain dew and run, run for the border. By nightfall we'll be crossing into Mexico, no problem. We'll go past Tijuana and then stop at some seedy motel where the owner has a wandering that won't look you straight in yours. We'll get their best room, which isn't much better than a room outta motel-6, and I'd kick off my shoes and she'd slip into something more comfortable while I dug a good Mexican tequila out of the icebox.

"Wanna tell me what all this is about?" she'll ask me.

"No," I'll tell her.

Pour her a shot. Pour me a shot.

Slam it down. Slam the glasses down. Take out my 2 billion and 1 plastic cards, testament to my past life where just about everything I did, everything I bought or rented or sold, was encoded in a compact magnetic bar. Take 'em out and build a house of cards.

Set fire to it.

Watch it burn slow and sickly and purple.

Watch it burn for a minute and then meet her eyes through the curling collapsing frame of the cardhouse. And we'll go to bed. We won't say a word. We'll make a hell lotta noise.

Next morning we'd head north again. Rob all along the border. Rob and run. Rob and run. Leave a trail of crime behind us as long as our 5 o' clock shadows across the desert sand. Get filthy rich. Light a cigar with a rolled-up hundred dollar bill. Drink out of a $2000 Gucci slipper.

Get caught one day, of course. Get caught in some bank holdup somewhere, 'cause the FBI's been on our tails for 16 months now and our luck finally runs out.

Won't go down easy. Pull a gun. Start shooting. Get shot. Get shot down. Get shot dead. Watch it all fade away. Gunsmoke and slanting afternoon sunlight. Blistering desert heat and dust devils dancing with the tumbleweeds. Lover/partner in crime/slick looking goth that'll get off with 10 years, get married and settle down to a respectable life, but won't ever forget her 18 months on the run with me. And that's the last I'll see. And I wouldn't regret a thing.

Not a thing.

And then?

And now, actually?

I realize it's 2:20, and I've got about 3hrs 40min left to sleep.

This was one hell of a weird diary entry. I meant to write about living the idyllic life on the coast of Baja California. Man, goo-goo juice does weird shit to your head.

Time for bed.

santa monica.

I just DLed one of those know, those songs you liked before you realized there were mp3s? Anyway, here are the lyrics to Free Falling, which I think are really poetic in a sorta simple way:

She's a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis
Loves horses and her boyfriend too
It's a long day living in Reseda
There's a freeway runnin' through the yard
And I'm a bad boy cos I don't even miss her
I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart
And I'm free, free fallin'
Yeah I'm free, free fallin'
All the vampires walkin' through the valley
Move west down Ventura Boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
All the good girls are home with broken hearts
I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
Gonna free fall out into nothin'
Gonna leave this world for a while
CHORUS (repeat to end)

--You know what this song reminds me of? Route 66. Or at least the connotations of Route 66, all the myth that surrounds it. The movement from the Heartland to the southwest to Santa Monica by the sea.

Santa Monica has such an evocative name. More so than LA. LA's too modern, too often-heard, too recognized. But Santa think lazy summer days, palm trees and surfing and sunsets, margaritas, 1960s convertibles and, yes, sex. By the sea.

Santa Monica's like the soul of Southern California. As much as I want that to be San, well, it's not. Santa Monica. Summer City, USA.

Hmm. Okay. That's all I have to say for now.