13 DEC 05
That which you are, that only you can see. (Emerson) 
One time I thought that something was about to happen, in the future. It was in the time when we first met. I think I thought that somebody would die. What was really happening was: I was about to change.
All art arises from longing. All science too. All night I dreamed of two things. Like any postman with a thousand paintings in his attic. "They can get lost. They burn."
They all come back to the body. ("Breathe like the character you're playing.")
When we talked about a "dream come true," I didn't know what you were telling me. Matted. With some mats on top. "It was my nature."
Workmen hammering outside. Blaring radio, "Born to Be Wild." How did that all work out?
. . . . .
