Four-ninety-five five minutes faster but I decided on Baltimore. To retrace the steps.

First time retracing them and first time out there this Philly stint since seeing Gina read—got led some rando route last time, and at night, directly from the 41st spot.

It was Ryden’s detour—his decision to roll with, to think of and hire me / my van, and for that matter to even move—that led me back this way.

Past the gated park in I think the 60s that marked westernmost West Philly.

Past the Kmart I found my waterproof pants at T–3 days, and had that breakdown in the Kmart parking lot that almost broke the resolve.

Almost quelled the mania.

But then the mania survived; the mania was too strong; the mania doubled down—pushed me all the way to Mountain Time.

Past the Rite Aid on Baltimore I ducked into for bug spray late Day 1 of 100, wiping ex bae’s departure-tears from my memory (and mine from my face), suddenly realizing ‘Oh but ticks though’ while considering, for the first time tangibly, what sleeping out would actually be like, while walking that first day—although probably mostly stalling.

Three days ago, wandering around all night, realizing the LA trip hadn’t done shit. The roids, the spores, neither.

Panicking.

Peak mania, again.

Why Ryden hired me partly, probably, witnessing this.

Out of a sort of pity, but one that didn’t feel patronizing; out of one that operated within the System—according to a basic logic that was thoughtful and utilitarian.

He needed a thing (pick up furniture; move); I had the thing—could provide the service—he needed.

My mania on that morning was distinctly Scorpion: gritty, stiff-lipped, ready to snap, wield that pincer at any moment.

I remember bc that morning was the Friday morning Lil Durk’s Signed to the Streets 3 (2018) dropped.

Was primed to make the mish out to the old walls bc of the courage that project gave me.

Signed to the Streets (2013), that early Drill rap classic, the anthem, going into the walk.

What helped me stare the savagery of the world head-on, unflinching; what reminded me what the world outside the walls of our safe dwellings looked like.

What unfiltered nighttime sounded like.

Late in the acid trip the February before the March 2014 I set out—the trip I decided to set out walking, after walking all over West Philly, tripping so hard but totally OK somehow—I remember walking back to ex bae’s, parka’d up, blasting Durk’s “Dis Ain’t What U Want,” realizing that I, this, me, wasn’t, could never be, what she wanted. No matter how much she thought I was.

That song became the intro music to the opening pod that validated and perpetuated the prolonged manic episode that was the walk.