By Jessica Cortez

He mentioned nature, time and patience as the three great healers. Seekers we were, we spoke of death as if it were our only friend. But I, oh I, remember a conversation with Morrison's brother; his faint voice trapped in a phone of love and remorse. When asked if he had the chance to die and start life once again would he? And he said he would. His longing for nonexistence was lost in his ideologies of art and applause. He was a cross of thrills and chills (run up my spine as he encourages me to wear flowers in my hair). That is the key to happiness he says. This is the faint reminder of a conversation I have with Morrison. On the kitchen tile we both agree no that's not the way it's supposed to be. We plead and bleed of knowledge beneath our tired confusion (we are lost in our cynicism as the world is blistering on by...). Scavenging our pockets for a few bucks for our New York Bagels and charcoal coffee (where is Musofee now my Utah friends?).

Our struggle is with the will to live and our only friend visits us again. Death in a silence, heaven in a setting moon. We question our constellations, "Are we alive in our Indian descent?" But oh, We live in San Diego where the hills roll and the oceans long for the blackbirds crow and the Bell Jar is no joke. Our jade supplied us with no role of a soul and what do we do? He who knows this ancient aching mystery can raise his hand.