Pictured: John Blacksher, Leila Wylie and Ryan Starsailor float precariously over the Pacific Ocean at sundown.

It is eight a.m. and we’re rocketing up the coast of California. We have left the City of Angels, and are presently Oakland-bound.

The night before last, we took dear friend Leila out for a birthday dinner on Hermosa Beach. We stood on the pier as the sun sank into the ocean, and felt something. We’re not sure what.

Yesterday there was a trek through Venice Beach, where we witnessed an endless cavalcade of dopeheads and burnouts and freaks and weirdos and perverted circus acts. We were creeped out and depressed and deeply confused. It was worth experiencing, but a man can only take so much.

We met up with reader Alex, and found that he had come to understand perfectly this project of ours, and found too that he was gracious and generous. Thanks for the grub, brother. We want you to know that you’re as much a part of this thing as anyone.

There was work done on our film projects with the help of new friends Adam, Jeremy and Corey. These three scoundrels will shortly become an independent production group closely affiliated with VIII Nothing, whether they like it or not. We drank beers and played guitar on their balcony and made up songs about strangers walking down their street. When it came time to leave for the train station, firm handshakes were exchanged.

We arrived in L.A. without a single plan. Those we have to thank for making creative sparks fly during our visit were total strangers not four days ago.

Now we head north.