I am tremendously interested in going into the mountains. The place where I will sit down to dinner with Arabs, my combed hair glistening. The charred fox on the platter, mistaken for dog, shot through the heart. The chorus of cousins, solemnly uninvited, but still in attendance, the rugged rapscallions. The host with his lions, the pair eating onions, minions serving buns. The bat is a velvet mask.
I am very interested in your cavern in the mountains, the crevice where the sun shines for one hour only. I am puzzled by the moldiness of man-made surfaces, the genial alignment of everything in the natural world. If I could find my way to a simpler occupation. If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal. If I could find my way to the walking rock.