Your sounds are so San Diego, says the Sensitive New Age Caller to the Duchess during the morning DJ hour, who despite partaking muchly in the sounds of sundry psychedelia and darkened moods, has never partaken of any illegal substances, much less gotten drunk.
But the general mood is wintry and moody, more Seattle or Bristol than Long Beach, there is little California sun to be found here, and even the sounds from warmer climes are tinged with melancholia. Those who know me not assume that I'm some free-spirited peace and love yoga granola hippie chick but the truth is far more pedestrian. Even a square peg in a round hole is still a square.
While keeping the apartment heated takes a toll economically in the cold months, and public transportation is infinitely desirable to skidding through the slush in the car, the trees profiled in white, the filigree of ice, the way my ears go numb, and I come home to drink infinite cups of tea and listen to beautiful and melancholy tuneage, these are good things.
The vicious Chicken of Bristol turns all his victims wintry & moody. I think San Diego is his code word for Tijuana.
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