and then

pont and i went through america a little.

i put pictures here.

i think i must have spent days alone. what i can remember is looking at the ocean, reading beckett and listening to smog.

and if i do not go there gladly, i go perhaps more gladly there than anywhere else, astonished and at peace, i nearly said as in a dream, but no, no. but it is not the kind of place where you go, but where you find yourself, sometimes, not knowing how, and which you cannot leave at will, and where you find yourself without any pleasure, but with more perhaps than in those places you can escape from, by making an effort, places full of mystery, full of the familiar mysteries i listen and the voice is of a world collapsing endlessly, a frozen world, under a faint untroubled sky, enough to see by, yes, and frozen too.

from molloy