I held the fort, somewhat poorly as it turned out. While visiting a nearby farm and his psyche. There is play and there is what play prepares us for.
In terms of burgeoning experience then. Two scrambled eggs and half a banana. Lovely, that forced stillness, God saying slow.
In the old rocker before grabbing Nabokov. Rising grain prices, walking devil blues. He navigates the terrain with courage and a cane.
Sighted another old foundation out there, etc. Like wastelands to me, some shelves empty, faces looking down. Shuttered, that word works.
Somewhat contrary to the idea we have, right or wrong. Ghosts very much on my mind these days. I do, yes, but with radiating doubt.
For me, just rolling in the lovely notes, awash with whatever passion he held while composing. Thus more informed or undergirded. I'm just saying is all.
It was the whole point. While going away I'm so sad.