STREAM.

Traveling this and that way; having new conversations with old acquaintances; old conversations with new acquaintances; cold conversations somewhere in between; skimming the surface of sleep, skipping across it like a deranged pebble; that certain crook in the elbow of the year, late beginnings as the months stretch homeward: everything conspires to disorient my spatial reasoning and abstract my perception of time. The recent past turns to legend and the very people and places I visited only yesterday or the day before become primitives in some personal mythology, shadows animated by ancient fire, rumor and myth withdrawn to remote outposts of memory. The details are intimate on a cosmic scale. I've never felt less innocent or been more naïve.