the frozen turf, no game this morning, she said. Sky cover’s all stripped away and the cold’s biting. There’s snow in Spain, snow on the crest of the dunes that fan down from the jebel. I remember the highest peak we got to in Maroc, the guide pointed to the horizon, a trace of fire glimmering at the edge of the Sahara. This cold lays siege to my apartment, fogs the windows, cracks the skin across my knuckles. And I wish I was Tangiers tea-sipping with Bowles, flipping through Pages from Cold Point, taking a ride out of town in the open Merc he bought on his first – and only – big advance. But Bowles is gone, and Jack and Satori in Paris, and I lost sight of the true path through the woods some time ago. We have to live our own adventures now, there’s no vicarious freeloading from other drifters and dreamers. When the pitch thaws, you have to play.
