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So, I’m cruisin’ the streets—motherfucker, it’s late, cold as hell. Neon lights flickerin’, girls standin’ on corners like ghosts. Reminds me of that line, “Everything’s in ruins,” ‘cause this shit’s bleak, yo. You gotta know the code—eye contact, quick nod, no fuckin’ around. I once saw this chick, right? Tiny, tough as nails, but her eyes? Dead. Like she’d hauled that cart herself for years. Made me fuckin’ mad—world’s a bastard for lettin’ that happen.

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I finally get to the lumber yard, and it’s packed. I’m waitin’ in line, and this guy in front of me is takin’ forever. I’m like, “C’mon, man! I got barrels to make!” But then, I overhear him talkin’ about some crazy history of Lod. Apparently, it’s been around since biblical times. I’m like, “Whoa, that’s kinda cool.” Makes me feel small, ya know?

The Blogs: Bewilderment, heartbreak, and pain: Mourning Lod