IT'S A DELICIOUSLY sad and beautiful world, isn't it? But you have to remember for yourself. I can't tell you what it feels like to drive real slow over the Richmond Bridge this time of this kind of day, gray sky, gray bay. The bridge itself: gray. And dirty, and always under construction.

I drink my coffee black and my little car is blue. On the radio, all I can find, ever, is static.

Take any two people on the planet, for the sake of poetry, and set them down at a colorful table in a colorful and warm coffeehouse, behind you. Nice music, good strong brew. Now: What will they talk about?

"Love."

"Politics."

"Sports."

He said, she said, he said.

Me, I'm lost in thought, lost in my own body, own car, on my own way home to my home I'll never own. We all suffer, I think, from basically the same wound, a primal eviction notice, reverberating for 77.1 years like ringing phones from other people's apartments, not yours. You are homeless, for the sake of poetry.

I'm just trying to help: OK, kid, so the whole world doesn't revolve around you. But yours does! Remember? Remember what that was like?

Like a comet or meteor shower, or a lost-in-space radio wave, maybe, at various times throughout your life, if you pay attention, you will pick it back up for a moment and burst out crying in convenience stores, or singing, stuck in traffic.

Meanwhile: There's a long, light hair caught in the passenger seat headrest. Roll down your window and you have someone to dance with. Roll up your window and you have someone to talk to. Outside the gray, hard world turns to fields of foggy green, enough sheep to put the entire cast of Sesame Street to sleep for the rest of their lives. The winding country road is shouldered by brilliant purple flowers and teddy-beared roadkill.

Telephone poles. It's a long, lonely drive and it's a good day to die, I try to remember to tell myself every single day, like an Indian. Telephone poles are just crucified trees. Not as pretty, but they do their part to make conversation possible. When I get home, I'm going to make myself some breakfast and sit by the phone and eat and breathe.

I'm home. Power's out, again. No stove, no water pump, one flush. I have to take a dump and it's another Fellini-esque experience. Like a man in a business suit in a field or a woman fully clothed in the bathtub, I shit an entirely intact sandwich, yesterday's dinner, tri-tip with ricotta cheese, pineapple, tomatoes, lettuce, on a baguette ($7.49). It came in very nicely too. I remember: how delicious! Talking with my mouth full, trying to explain. Mango smoothie ...

I've been expending way too much energy lately trying to explain myself. To myself. To my friends, in person. To complete strangers. And I'm done, I swear. And I'm sorry if I've bored you, but not if I've confused you. Because that's life. Life is confusing. For example: Where did this rumor get started that I'm transgendered? Just 'cause I can't stop talking about it ... just 'cause I've used that word, and others like it, to describe myself ... just 'cause I write about it in the paper all the time and go around, as if to prove my point, in makeup and jewelry and stuff ... just 'cause I wake up every morning and wonder what my name is ...

Chicken Farmer. Lord Exister. Dani Bandana. Cheap Eats Guy. Dan "Dan" Leone. Hey You. Ellie. Danielle. None of the Above, and anything else anyone else wants to use to get my attention, including a rock upside the head.

My aim? Wide openness, OK? A state of existential receptivity to any and all signs of life and/or death. Who's with me? Both eyes, both ears, my nose, my mouth, my pores, and yes, sometimes even my butt hole: open for business. The nature of my business is life and death, food and shit, and from now on I promise no explanation will be necessary. It's just a deliciously sad and beautiful world, that's all – fog, food, coffee, and "for rent" signs everywhere.

Brazil Cafe. 2161 University Ave. (at Oxford), Berk. (510) 845-8011. Mon.-Sat., 11:30 a.m.-8:30 p.m.; Sun., 11:30 a.m.-7 p.m. Takeout available. Credit cards not accepted. No alcohol. Wheelchair accessible.

Email Dan Leone

Dan Leone is the author of Eat This, San Francisco (Sasquatch Books), a collection of Cheap Eats restaurant reviews, and The Meaning of Lunch (Mammoth Books).