Maybe one day we’ll reach a point when all possible frequencies have been recorded, every combination of words written.
Interstate Scene 14: “He thought it was a Civil War ghost,” she said. “But I didn’t start believing in ghosts until a few weeks ago.”
This morning I fed a robot a few sentences from the novel I’m writing, and it generated some startlingly accurate pictures.
We spent a week shivering in a damp atrium with rain dripping down the sides. We called it the Tarkovsky Box.
The usual clouds, the usual forty-something degrees, and there’s a photograph of my mom on the massive screen behind us.
London. Record-breaking wind swept across England yesterday, closing bridges, train lines, and attractions.
I woke up wondering if I would live my life any differently if I measured my age in days or hours instead of years.
Sunset: 6:20pm. A first-quarter moon. A high of 72 and another humid night that feels like the wrong season.
In the beginning, God was only “a permanently existing ghost.”
I’m not sure if I believe in symbols or signs, but today gave me plenty to decipher.
Lately my dreams have been all garble and grime without symbolism or plot.
A world without the color green. A man who repainted all the seashells on the beach.
Sometimes I dream about tollbooth operators, the half-glimpsed faces with cigarettes on their lips, their left hands forever clutching a quarter and a dime in change.
Each morning I wake to the imaginary babble of fully-formed news reports and television clips while skating across sleep.
We might remember crouching on the sidewalk, frantically trying to gather the teeth falling from our mouths—not the circumstances that led us there.
