Warblers, then turkeys, then the silence that always follows a biped. In the only dream I remember, fog, a schoolyard, a pile of stones. Efforts are currently underway to work the phrase "unrequited hunger" into a story. I still can't remember what word it was from yesterday, the M word I wanted.
Nor breathe much, nor read small words. Nor find words, particularly, they're too much like periwinkles stuck to rocks when the tide lowers. You don't call, you don't write . . . Now it's upstate New York, just touching Canada.
At once the conversation turns to oil. I want to step delicately into the blurred tornado. Please, no more "statements," "speeches." Rosemary, olive oil - I still love you, still want to be held that way.
"He wrote" . . . at least he wrote. The rising sun made the road appear pink, white, gold. He was aware of color now in a new way, could look at a thing for hours trying to see it, really see it. Oh there was also a dream in which he forgot a necessary text, but which one?
Time slows without aspirin or buckles. Later, at a certain height, it was gray, or at least monochromatic. The road, of course, "macadam." On which not traveling was impossible, nor recommended.