an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Sunday, August 24, 2008

. . . . . . .


Yesterday, a storm followed, churning the washes into rivers we crossed over, north into Texas, then Oklahoma. Firemen on the highway cleaning up the site of an accident with push brooms. Glass, mud, a motorcycle. Two hot dead lanes of tail lights pushing into the bridge and beyond where the exits must have been. A grilled fryer in the cooler with jamaica tea and melting ice. I called you. You didn't pick up.


"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers