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As I go, I go. Landscape to greyscape to the inky-black unknown clacks past. Like the disjointed, rumbling machinery of some large clock in whose bowels I sleep out my delicious dreams and find these words anew. Tomorrow not only born another day, but a destination,a leg complete. Bringing with it the reward of a closer Cairo. Even now, it draws near, clack by clackity clack, the wheels of dharma turning as they must on rails that can lead to nowhere else. Propelled through the dark night of the world-is-not-a-world beyond the cold cabin glass.

Could be anything beyond. Any space in the walls of my mind would just as truly occupy the dark cold canvas, unexposed film clacking through a projector frame by frame. Clacking to be given place. To be locked into the inescapable coordinates of light, scent, feel.

Places all, for which I have no memory. No smells, no sense of light, no recollection of air on skin.

Tomorrow the Karoo, then Johannesburg. Then on. To nights in places unimaginable. Perhaps with stars above the silent African grasses, asleep in their red earth beds. Perhaps stars cold, above the moon–drenched sands of the deserts. Places all, for which I have no memory. No smells, no sense of light, no recollection of air on skin.

So for tonight, while you are dark, world, let’s pretend you are the nearest things I know, but let us revel in our mischevious little secret, That you are not. That you know, precisely and truly, what your form can only be, the light you wear and the scent you cast. You know. I wait with my clacking, metronomic dreams until the morning, when I can have more than simply your scent on the wind of a dark night.