It's leaving time again

How can there never be any conclusion, any larger summation, tying of loose ends? Why must everything always be so...disjointed, and bizarrly clear and vibrant? I'm stuck in this strange continuation, between just being and doing and making...qu'est que je fais? Chto bydy delat? Proc? The sky is the color of my jeans and my hair is bleaching blonder. This whole California dream may just teach me the neccesity of sunblock. I guess I don't believe that I can be there then here so quickly, so harmlessly, so nonchalantly. Like I jumped through a hole in the sky, and landed here. Flat. Oouch. Like I've fallen back into a life I used to live, yet could never have known. Where is my blank page, blunder, barrier, boundary between what was, and Part Eighty of what is coming?