The machines of the carnival churn and spin, so that screams haunt my days of reading Heidegger. I can't recall why I wanted to write this paper last November, maybe that's why I have heartburn tonight.
This May has been a month of late nights, of cognac, bad movies, dark interiors, and chat that rambles, world-ranging, until the dawn creeps in, surprising me. In London, I slept in a bare room overlooking a garden hung with white hard small stars, my dreams tangy with the odors of fresh paint and cologne and burnt tobacco. Then, at the world's edge, I wandered a silent labyrinthine house; outside the twilight sky teemed with corvids.
Time passes too quickly. Or I move too much. Last May I stood in soaked boots far above house and lake and forest, on the cliffside of a fog-shrouded mountain, peering into spiderwebby blossom-flecked holes to nothingness. The sky beneath us. Now I'm here, "home", wondering how to start anew.