Where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
“The true adventurer must come to realize, long before he has come to the end of his wanderings, that there is something stupid about the mere accumulation of wonderful experiences.”
I spent most of the day near the fish market, south of the bazaar. The mid-day sun reflected off both the water and the coats of oil that were thickening on the scales of the recent catches, giving the entire scene a silvery glow, one collective glint of temporary blindness. I would sit across from the stalls and watch the tapestry of the market weave itself with blues and silvers and greens. There was one merchant shouting above all the rest, shouting of the inherent power his goods held. Degraded commodities of god, he would shout. Himself being made in the image of god, he made the logical leap that there was some trace in the things he had made, and willing to part with them, he was in fact blessing each individual who would buy an item.
The Times They Are A-Thievin’
France flits open like a ripe fig in the wind, we are raping the land, we are not stopping.
“Two figures are approaching an oil well. One of them holds a lighted torch. What are they up to? Are they going to rekindle the blaze? Has life without fire become unbearable for them? Others, seized by madness, follow suit. Now they are content, now there is something to extinguish again.”
In the professional wilderness of our 20’s, we are the most feared and hated.
I listen to Japanese harsh noise and I’m not registered to vote.