Winding up the cloverleaf the traffic on the highway is like a funeral procession, headlamps staring winter patient into some telesma of scrap metal. After blending with the cars and after the traffic thins the rest of the road home is like walking backwards through a dark forest. At home a coaster catches the lamplight like an amulet; one image after the next. Perhaps in a dream that moment of approach will appear deworlded and stripped for parts, the red taillights now guidelights down the carpet of a dark theater. Somehow impersonal like in an art gallery, a piece framed, and its process unengageable. A dream which is like another daytime. Tomorrow more in succession.

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-- Nov 23 2024