The city reminds me of sad incidents and failures. That’s why I used to hate coming back here. But now I want to find things I like, to make it even. So I walk around, rather aimlessly, to find them, making a list. It seems that what I like about the city has no specific narratives: The blue sky, houses painted white, bottlebrush trees, hummingbirds, eucalyptus, yellow reflectors on wooden telephone poles, colorful paper decorations in a taqueria, Spanish language on Mission Street, and rustling sounds of palm trees—they’re not stories, but hard evidences that allow me to be part of the picture or the rhythm, without any excuses, explanations.

I’m still alive, not dead.

And I stumble upon an old diner at the corner of Octavia and Market—this one has a specific story. This is where I made J. laugh, and he made me laugh for the first time, seventeen years ago. I’m still alive, not dead.