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The ride home [from Dave's party] felt so sad. There was no reason for it to be sad. But it was.

Sadness streets. Sadness street lights. Fog, buildings, courtyards, lampposts—all sad. And the sadness sang out the still silence of a sleeping San Francisco like a lullaby.

Short titles of memories poked at me as I passed by the streets with the names in alphabetical order. Short titles like night I went to walk to the beach (black leather coat) or in bed I heard the lighthouse through the open door to the courtyard or fog makes the electrical lines spark at night and it's beautiful.

I wasn't sure if it was the memories that brought the sad with them.

The party was fun. That was to be expected. Any party with my Burning Man friends is guaranteed to be a barrel of monkeys playing Hungry Hungry Hippos in an inflatable bounce house. Without clothes. On drugs.

But, in spite of a party that was filled to the brim with bursting sacks of awesome, the ride home felt like the last day of the going out of business sale at Melancholy Central.

It was weird.

So I went with it. I didn't let it get me down. I just appreciated the melancholy and sad spices that were being swabbed into the eyes of my heart by invisible sadness police who don't like smiles. Instead of thinking, whoa this sucks, I said to myself, well, I guess I am going to be sad for a while—maybe some sad music might add to the experience?

As I drove I felt rhythmic and in tune with the road—not in an active way, but in the most passive melty way possible. I listened to Camper Van Beethoven on the way back. The songs seemed forlorn and fitting.

I went in the hot tub for a while. Silence filled the hills, it slipped silently through the trees. It poured down into the Silicon Valley below and seeped into the bay and out to the ocean. I looked up at the stars and let my mind wander.

I didn't sleep that night. I stayed up late messaging with Andie. And crying. There's a lot of sad that I never processed. I was busy traveling and writing and taking pictures and putting out an album. I forgot to mourn the loss of something huge.

I'm learning something lately: you can put things off, but they don't go away.