It'll be Alright.

I float in the inexorable sense of osmotic San Francisco; There is no denying that I am here;  You say I have left, but I can’t have.  My bones and my miraculae still attest to a dirty city street.  My heart and sinews still call out washings by bay breezed chills.  You say I’ve hulled up in my room;  I discover now, somewhere deep inside my mind, and somewhere deep inside society, that San Francisco is rooms.  Curt on the edges, curtailed on the brink of human time, human thought.  Society is rooms, community is tubes.  Communication is wires.  You say I’m not in San Francisco, but how can I not be?  If only, and wish I was not, but ever remain.  San Francisco, is a place is burned to dust decade to demi-decade past.  San Francisco is a mind has moved, but moves, congeals, clings to me, clings to you; has spread out, resounding and returning as an echo off a garage door facing your face, back down the busy highway streets.  Its thumb was not answered, so it breezed through locomotive, high and hurt desert towns, to the eastern sea board.  You cannot help that it is in you.  So truly I tell you, if I am not in San Francisco, and I sometimes feel I am not, it is because it is in you, and you have taken it from me, and you will not return it.