I see hundreds of trees. Only the burnt ones hold my interest.
I point at grains in the rocks and pretend to understand, because then it doesn't feel as if I am wasting my time.
Geology reminds me of your hotel room. White sheets like platy crystals spread out over hopeful arms and legs.
Four thousand kilometres.
Memories of former transfigurations give rocks their flavour. Eyes wet in the morning make certain surfaces appear darker. Clouds roll over the peaks of hills. A face disappears upon take-off. A phone rings somewhere in an empty house. Windows break. A rock in the fireplace (it cannot be touched but is not on fire). Falling stones reshape the earth. One circle in place of another. On that which moves too quickly, nothing can grow. I want to see the detail of the ocean.