Anxieties

Begin with an 8-hour drive home, but don't end there.

Sartre wonders if there even is a beginning, or is there even an end? He tells stories that cut up and divide this infinite time into little chunks, which he then recites over and over but never hears. He believes these stories but I don't believe him, although he is right when he tells me I am the stories I tell. I shall have happier stories than he, I hope.

The Arizona earth is hot; Darfur's is scorched.

There is a God above but not below, unless I count my mind.

He once told me to give my life to the pictures, but three years later that dream is fading fast and was it something I said? The East Coast and higher higher education is the last place I want to go.

I put these words in plain view, but they're in a bad neighborhood. Not dangerous, just boring, and only a few people will come by to look. Of the few that do, fewer will make it here, but it's this handful of adventurers that I fear, because the more I write the more I am to them. I am a the stories I tell, and I write only dreams, nothing more.