Last night there was a full moon, and so of course I got stoned to the bone and went walking. I walked thirteen miles alone in the cold beneath the pale moonlight. It was great!

At one point I was almost pancaked by an ambulance running lights and sirens through a red light . . . but it didn’t get me, and so I live to post these here pictures I took of my long journey through the darkness:

About an hour after I took that picture of the moon over the river, I accidentally ended up back at that very same spot and now there was an older couple standing there gazing at the moon. It almost looked like a painting and I wanted to take a picture of them with the moon, but it seemed invasive, and so I didn’t.

Anyway . . . the end!

BONUS:

Monty was almost hit by an ambulance as well . . . mere minutes after my close encounter!

EXCALIBUR (1981) rules btw

When I stopped working on the races I was glad but it left an emptiness. By then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped. But if it was bad, the emptiness filled up by itself. If it was good you could only fill it by finding something better.

a moveable feast

i will follow you wherever you go if your offered hand is still open to me

I have died . . .

being gego probably rules

Brother McCune and I took a four-hour train from Berlin to Prague, the city of a thousand spires. It is a beautiful city full of very sweet people. Or anyway, they were very sweet to us, perhaps on account of our natural American gregariousness and the fact that we are both beloved celebrities clad in black leather jackets.

We spent three days there doing whatever it is a couple of bums like us do, mostly drinking coffee and putzing around and breaking hearts, and collapsing well past midnight in our cute little apartment in the city center. We visited the National Art Gallery and saw Klimt and Picasso and plenty of moon-themed paintings I had only ever seen online . . . and descended into a 15th-century absinthe dungeon and hallucinated deep beneath the cobblestone city streets . . . and visited the grave of ol Franz Kafka himself, which was in an autumnal cemetery on the edge of town.

Once we learned there was a warrant out for our arrest, we boarded a train back to Berlin to hide out in my detective tower. I can’t wait to go back once the heat has died down.

Here’s what our trip looked like, if you’re into that sort of thing:

Well . . . seeya!

have i finally reached event horizon foolishness, which always seemed like an inevitability? i think so. professing myself to be sincere, i became a fool. and yet i am, like the fella said, a deliberate, intentional fool, and that’s the worst kind. or didn’t you know? such is my tale. a fool does foolish things and, as with life and death itself, you must make terms with it, and then you are free. being free to be a fool is beautiful. too bad it costs you your dignity first