It’s always fascinating when writers write about writers. Often, those who take up the pen are inherently voyeuristic. Distant observation, interest in the absurd and provocative, and forbidden explorations fuel the art.

In my personal noir godhead of Cain, Chandler, and Highsmith, there is plenty of room for Dorothy B. Hughes.

Noir upends the American dream — no more promises of a new day. Instead, we live by night. But live, we do.

Perhaps worse than death is being forgotten. That’s why loneliness and isolation are treacherous places to inhabit.

While my intention was to just “get fucked up,” my hallucinations and euphoria undulated with intense spiritual themes.

Photo by Alejandro Linares Garcia

We visited Parque Mexico many times, but that first night, the heightened awareness of a new place intoxicated me like a strong mezcal.