west alabama ice house, houston txbars and yoga studios, everywhere i go. they are all the same. sure the bars seem very different, in the city huddled up in dark backlit holes, and then here lying on a park bench under the sun as we soak away the hours. the studios seem very strange, as i am used to third floor, fourth floor sweat stained caverns, and i find myself here in a carpeted basketball court drenched in cool light from the morning sun. but where it's the same is where it really counts. i find myself at home in a puddle of sweat, gaze to the stars and the rythym of breath, and find my reflections in the bottom of jars, bottoms of bottles and a smoked stained moon, and too in the familiar, shakey traversal of these two boats, these two worlds, that are really just the same thing, same thing, same thing, all along the way.