A fishing boat leagues away from the San Diego docks and it’s about 2 in the morning, the lights from the night club scene shine onto the bay, and the fishermen drink their rum and try to sleep on top of agoraphobia, the humongous aquarium ocean and the loneliness of looking on that dark horizon to the storm clouds passing you to the north and to the east is the sounds distant and faraway, like where God is to our souls when we fish for food in our day to day, and San Diego is nothing more than the imprint of that fisherman’s eyelids, beneath his hat, next to his bed, where his unused toothbrush lay lying next to the toilet, the imprint of San Diego is nothing more than you and me and Sea World.