A bus without a terminus but kindly stopped for me by accident, at random, to get on in the middle and take it somewhere to the middle, I’m sleepy, “without a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of,” as if I were to speak of eggs in the moonlight, a tone poem set in semi-precious stones, or of chaos, the intricacy of bugs, that is, it has its own purposes beyond our knowledge. Or I may treat it as an inconvenience, because it’s not what I planned, and refuse to appreciate its accidental value, a green and a gray of unusual streets. Or incapable, sleepy, how the thing that I want doesn’t come; I can’t think of the name, which, if to know it, were to own it, an image of something without an image, nauseous with all the starts and stops, I might say, take your shoes off on the sidewalk, get on a bus at the wrong stop, break habit, break stride, take a break; chance, like death, is a greater factor in my life than I may be willing to admit.
10 July 1986