25, yes 25. what learned? not much. i still know nothing about the dawn. rosy fingered eos climbs into bed and i roll over. with the recent jet lag i have listened to her instead and she is as crazy as the creaky old night.

life has long since ceased to be even a webwork of cause and effect. purely episodic. the connections are emotional and transitory, and anyone who makes study of why one viewing is different than another is a fool. nothing can be sacred. have i told her any secrets here in this strange world of airplanes and 9 hour time differences? forever now it must be that when I see her it will be a sort of magic if it does not take days of travel by trains and bicycles and foot.

i wake up with all of it seeming still much like a dream and with my lungs aching as if I had smoked half a pack the night before. i remember Kandinsky more than anything else, and walking through the rain holding the umbrella. rain creates memories, too: no doubt the english have written so much only because they have so much to remember, even in the summer.

why is it that some questions seem unanswerable without a cigarette?