when i'm gone i won't be anywhere i guess. still i'm writing to the dead. my dad's dead next week's father's day. we scattered him over chicago all the places he use to go, his make-out spots, his baseball diamond, his beach, the random spots where he rolled drunks for cash, ah me, he's scattered and we scattered him, and are scattered as well.  where was i going with this. same as in talk therapy, i seem to trail off into the same vacant wilderness.