What does one think to think over the sea, and chablis? The waves roll in, or rather under the Cliff House, and out the window into the distance they wash across the beach. San Francisco, there you lie encrusted like consequential barnacles on the land’s brown back arched up heavy from the beach into a gray air, under the blue sky out of the deep and cold Pacific. Out on the water the light surface frolics below the bright mass of a fog whose intensity dissolves the horizon. The music swings, and sidles, the ocean swells, and my mind whirls.

10 July - 10 August 1977