Quest
journal entry
on the hojack trail Ive stumbled more than once on old railroad ties and its only then in my humility to the earth do I think about something other than myself—I imagine the languages and voices of people in those freights and if they knew of the sadness and bliss that comes at the edges of the day. their dusty bottles of liquor in bars or the tarred furniture in hash dens or the sweat and groove of music leaking out late at night in those seedy places you shouldn't be in... I keep my movement light and try to disappear in the canopy of trees above me as I worry about people behind and ahead of me in this fragment of time and the frightened adrenaline that comes in flashes and I want the composure of sages— the kind that dwells in timeworn hands that close in on ores that paddle on water into lost cities somewhere beyond the mountains.
... if we did/could watch What Dreams May Come...