"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.
"I don’t much care where--" said Alice.
"Then it doesn’t matter which way you go," said the Cat.
"--so long as I get somewhere," Alice added as an explanation.
"Oh, you’re sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."
Eager, like a wild rabbit, yet grounded, like a wise chaplain. “I found that what I had desired all my life was not to live - if what others are doing is called living - but to express myself.” (Miller). The diamond arm - now just a scar (long overdue) - still stiff but studded. Different book, different door: different stories crisscrossing and interweaving into one long narrative. Will it have meaning? Another revision, lost in transmission - how does the plot unfold? Time is unstoppable. I keep on reading. Proximity: pompous and ridiculous. Being close and being far are sometimes the same. Manhattan on fire, smothered in the crepuscular rays, a low-flying bird's-eye view. East or west, viola is best (isn't that obvious?) - sunrise and sunset, constant music on the mind. More tea and still Tuesday. Time is malleable. Behemoth yawns, continually, even after dark, even after all that jazz, even after Schubert on Friday. A song for the deaf, choosing between weight and lightness, time and other ailments. That decision: clear as mud.
But really? Someone's happy...