We were on Oahu for the day, in the run down section walking though a museum. I wanted to take you to Honolulu, to that little club. You agreed to stay on the island a few days longer so that we could visit it. We exited out of the wrong side of the museum, and the truck was gone. I know that if we had kept walking from the wrong side, there would have been a shack in the mud where we once lived. There was a farmer's market very close and to the East of the shack.
My sister and I were walking into an Aikido dojo. Sensei said that he had rented the upstairs out to some less than satisfactory tenets. I was thinking about how her pink and plaid skirt was much too short. The people upstairs were dancing around with seemingly mundane objects. They were attached to slender shiny marionette strings. We promised to help them deliver their goods, and sealed the deal with a drink. Upon exiting the dojo, I saw many of your friends sitting on the curb. They were all armed with semi-automatic guns and there was a ton of ammo. My sister and I picked up a weapon and sat next to all of you. You were on the end, unarmed and crying. Your friends would not let me ask you why.
There is a highway that runs from the North to the South. It has many high arching bridges at different intervals. When we drive to the South, we end up at a random place that is not ours. When we drive to the North, we end up at home. Home is our place. It looks different every time we go back, but it is always there; to the North...