You do go on. Somehow. What fills these days, irresolute and smoking? This and that, chance occurance, meaningless symbols. Best left untouched, even the star shaped scar on the waitress’s left arm at Homemade: these things you cannot know without forgetting others, this what you cannot touch without to the exclusion of the whole world touching nothing else, nothing.

Around sunset I walked up the hill to the rose gardens and the warm sunlight of the day turned dark red and struck at that blue angle a tulip tree bearing still, only scraps of its purple blossoms and the first buds of pale green leaves. How beautiful. Tree no longer tree, alive with its own light. Truly the skin of the physical world itches to acquire untainted names, to hear the tongue of Adam, God’s wolf.

This had, has already occurred driving through Utah, sense of being on the wrong planet, among truly alien things untouched by the naming games, blissfully ignorant of endlessly multiplying mountain, montanha, serra, Berg, tigre, leão…where I was born these things were unnamed, I was born nameless, and I was not one thing in exclusion of another. Love did not taint itself, did not test itself, the conditions of its birth unquestionable, unthinkable: unthought. I cannot have come here by choice. Carthage. Unreal City. Metropolis.