Begin to move in one particular way rather than another; whither that tends unknown. Looking for the clew; no minotaurs. Reminds me of that Turkish Night, all angles and crossed wires. I misremember. Miss remembering, not but that madness that way lies – or tells the truth.
Should stop playing with words like that; hurts the hands and the head and doubtless causes blindness.
From the windows: the sound like the sea in the distance, cars crossing bridges crossing rivers leading to the ocean; the sharp cold color of the hills; shadows in the ridges, and white glaring light off the southern side of buildings; rusty leaves and the smell of ground and rotting chestnuts.
Our little ship with paper sail
Sets out upon the sea –
A narrow nutshell for the boards
Holds us both in state;
And with brave splinter for a mast
’T will weather any gale.
::
ego hoc feci mm–mmviii
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