Spilt Wine

Finding refuge in the Black Magic Tavern on Lombard and Van Ness, in San Francisco. I sit at the bar with my beer; looking out the window, watching trees decorated in dazzling Christmas lights, as they dance in the wind. Rain drops tap dance on the black shinny asphalt, with reflections of red break lights. Looking for meaning in this moment. Actually, longing for meaning, needing meaning, but there is none. There is no fucking meaning in sitting in some strange bar, with strangers, while it rains outside. None at all. Though I have to admit, at this moment, I did take some time to reflect and appreciate my life. A life that I have been fortunate enough to be blessed with friends and love. There is meaning in that.