I arrived in San Francisco 43 days ago, over the course of my short life, I have spent 43 days in many places. Until now, this very day, every minute of those 43 days has been a blinding overture dedicated to the instinctual act of survival. I do mean survival in its most primitive sense; food, water, shelter. Seems simple. When preformed for myself and another the simplicity strips away with incredible ease. With my senses heightened, I havnt the energy to waste on selfish indulgence. Today, that weight and fear climbed off my back, if only momentarily, it was away. I tap a fine peaberry grind into the lower chamber of the Italian espresso maker, it later rolls across my tongue in perfect tune with Max Richters Infra. 86 degrees and sunny is a rare occurrence. Gliding through the Mission on two wheels, sunglasses from the supermarket, pants cut into shorts, sockless feet sweating into faded banana yellow slip-on vans, drifting in and out of awareness with nowhere and everywhere to go. My eyes are free for the first time in 43 days to gaze at the color and grace of my neighborhood, I smell fresh tortillas, the whisper quiet clicking of my rear tire tells me "you are free today". My eyes open and close in long, slow exaggerated blinks, I am on Valencia, a blink later drifting around a stopped bus on Harrison, the next I'm laying on the grass of Precita park. As though the playing dogs are in on my involuntary exercise of time and space, they seem to run and jump for a lingering frisbee in the same dreamy half speed that my legs pedal me through the ocean of vacant cars that flood this city.