Photography is the devil's best invention. Lost on a mountain, dying of thirst, dreaming of fields of irises. One always returns to the Holocaust, doesn't one. Eschew museum sensibility please and face what is.
The words are always echoes but of what. Shivering on the dawn firn, remembering tea with my daughter. A fallible memory buttressed by images explicates how. At dawn moreover accordingly.
We played a variant of baseball in my youth. Your switchback is my arthritic camel. Goats are oblivious to landscape views. A certain loneliness was thus multiplied.
A certain solitude bankrupted. The mind which perceives God is God-like maybe? I mean jasmine, maybe, or maybe fennel. Tanks rumble down the hill's far side.
You want to hear back from me? All the devil ever does is memorialize doubt in the interest of permanence. Love in a time of walruses. Or something like that.
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