On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.

The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.

I think I may well be a Jew.

I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

I’ll never speak to God again.

Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream