the not-knowing, makes me think of all the false surfaces, Ahab’s paper masks to punch through. You can only know what’s true when you see it, breathe it for yourself. Stumbling in the fog. And I worry I’m already a ghost, listening to music from the 70s, music I grew up with, reading ancient books and staring at ancient paintings, feet stuck in the quick-fix concrete of the past. The five-mile deep immensity of the ocean past. Staggering through the present.
