I woke to a response from Roger Ebert to an e-mail of mine. “A damn spell-binding song.” Text in his voice while searching my Nintendo for the off switch on its notification. The melodic whir pleasantly lingers midway into my week. I forget what my original messages were.

It was one message but I thought the plural was too stupid to pass up in case someone were merely scrolling. I’m going about this all wrong. 🪩❤️‍🩹

Salt is the sugar of no good.

You’re not happy until you can be happy for someone else. The idea of yourself implies someone else. Once there’s an ethical paramount you have an ontology—the idea of your being. The deontology of the Decalogue is that the being is the rule: immorality contradicts being.

I’ve been around the sun 43 years. My age is derived. Living on Mars would be a moral contradiction to being. It would be immoral to call it immoral. It would quickly become wronger and wronger to say I had been on Mars the length of time earth travelled the sun 43 years.

I was was I? I am am I? - past tense: antecedent becomes dep.clause (aBd) - “I’m like, am I?” I was like that, was I? (This means you look asleep.)

I’m like that, am I? (This can’t mean you were unaware in the same way as when you were sleeping. The present is a subjunctive past. ‘/were,’ not ‘are’ unaware.

I started traveling again. Instead of setting out all at once, smaller intervals – like Lake Viking. It’s fewer than 50 miles north. A commercial lake with nary a spot to plot. That was my Friday. This week I’ll go about the same distance north of St. Joe, the sane Ogden Utah.

A hardly mentionable White Cloud is acting as my verbal directive if not spiritual foundation for the northwestern corridor of Missouri. I’ll be heading up the river to its foundation in Yates Fort, North Dakota by March. I want to be in its bends for the love of ribbon.

The odd specter of an anter dimentional chair set with the utmost aesthetic coordination to the curve out leaving woods: urban jungle. Its earthy design had the Sophistication of having always been there, like a utility.

In the municipality, where the actual golf courses are, where the highway begins to bleed-in to the regular roads, a fence that could keep giants on their toes marks off one such course.

South out of Council Bluffs the hill were like golf courses effortlessly turned about, Play-do in the hands of a tasteful martini. Along with the blur of motion it was like the small swords you’d have in the olives had been painted on.

It continues on this way with the remains of a rusty bridge falling off the bone into the river the art deco overpass hoists you upon the water to see. END

here theirs are waxed and without the halfopened bags of trash that turns the latter into the poverty that history naturally is at one intersection and into a quiet pavilion with ravines gauging my expectations of what a city was.

Pacific Junction, which if you read the sign in the rain, Jct. abbreviated looks like Pacific Jet. The same buildings looking like they’re falling to pieces from the thirties are in St. Joe but

The lost friend, the carefree shark seen living in its jolly egg. The brown membrane’s most passing torque. The color of bats. I feel like getting drunk. Pressing sea.