I went to the city last night . . . I took BART. I had not really done that in a long time. Alayna, bless her heart, had given me some weed someone else had given her, and which she never wanted in the first place. So I rolled a joint and smoked it on my walk to Ashby Station. It was a little chilly even though the sun was still up, and there was no one outside at all, not a single soul . . . very strange. I was listening to HARVEST for some reason, and feeling a little spooky. It was not an altogether bad way to feel. But as soon as I sat down in the BART car, I felt absolutely fucking miserable and twisted up from whatever godawful strain that shit was. Maybe that’s not it at all, and I was just not primed for it just then. But anytime you tell someone you’re stoned and having a bad time, they say: “Probably just smoked the wrong strain, dude.” It really does make a difference to a point, but holy lord, this was a mindjob. It slanted me right up! There was a lot of grim madness boiling over in my head, and there would have been whether or I’d gotten spooked up or not, though hell, it sure did amplify the hell out of it. I had to walk it off big time when I got to Powell Station, which smelled like dog shit and sewage, and on and on. And I kept walking it off as I took Hyde up to Geary feeling fucked out, maybe never to feel any other way. But of course it subsides. You never think it will but it does. I still have half the thing in my pocket. Maybe I’ll lie down and smoke this thing and WORK THROUGH SOME STUFF in my head soon. Maybe not! Sweet Jesus, it really did me in good. I spent the entire day on the couch doing very little. I would fall asleep and then wake up again, walk around my yard a little, and so on, and then go back to the couch. Finally I am sitting down at my desk in my room, my mind still reeling from this godawful ghost grass, and whatever the hell else, and I’m writing an email to this girl I know in London who, holy god, I would give just about anything to be in the same room with right now. Yeah. . . .