Gregory Todd Williams

T: I miss our road trips and aimless drives. I miss leaving on a whim for the Portugese Bend, or Claremont, or Berkeley. And I miss the music, alternating between extremes. Rage, Jewel, MxPx, Miles Davis, Tom Waits. I miss feeling that connection. I miss geeking out in your room, trying to compile Enlightenment d11. I miss all the little things that I never would have imagined would be the important stuff.

S: I miss driving to the Avon, and unleashing all the thoughts about people we know that had been accumulating. I miss talking in person. I miss you.

M: I miss driving around Brentwood and Santa Monica and causing trouble with N. I feel guilty about it, too, but those were some fun times. I miss knowing that we’d be friends forever, and I miss not regretting we hadn’t fallen apart.

And now I’ll miss driving alone. To the south bay, or the beach on a lonely night. Aimlessly, to sort out all the thoughts tangled up in my head. I’ll miss the comfort of knowing the back alleys of this town, back and forth from all the nights spent trying to get lost, and the history of the places where I was successful. I’ll miss guaging road trips by the number of mix tapes listened to. I’ll miss my city and the lost time with friends. And I’ll miss the drive.

So long.