(Photo: Alex Laurel)

By Dillon Perillo

(Short easy not the end more to come prose #needsimprovement. —Dillon, sent from on the road in Europe)

A whole life. I wait for my flight. I wait for it to land. I wait for my ride that hopefully picks me up.

What the fuck am I doing writing prose like this? I’m a near-retarded surfer. I’ve been reading too much. Too much Fante. But it helps relieve from the surf trends that numb my brain and helps me to better understand real life situations because my life isn’t real life.

I’m aware of this. I’m sitting in an airport lounge no better than a rat hole listening to all of Portugal’s problems play on television in the background. It’s almost hard to concentrate. I can hardly spell concentrate.

I spent my whole day driving with my friend around this island in search of lagoons and street art. Mysterious street art. Completely random but there’s not much else to life here. It’s rare for me to travel to a place where the land is more than a sideshow. It’s very enjoyable and it’s aided us here. I try to discover the different qualities and it keeps me from reverting to my home life where everything is supremely conventional.

I came here from New York. New York was great. I think it changed my life, but ask anyone about the effect New York had on their life and they would have the same annoying answer. But it did. It’s magic and it’s extremely gigantic and endless and never boring. It’s transformed me into a wanderer and nuisance. I feel dirty and careless but I think it’s good and great for me. I am happy to sit around. I saw a lake today and I’m calling this a journal entry. Journal entry numero who gives a fuck.

I question an airline on which a business class ticket is hardly a hundred dollars more than economy but I bought it anyway. I question a fourteen-hour layover in Lisbon but I choose to endure it anyway.