Long time no see, spectres.

Overwhelming urge to travel. Like a membrane, the soft city can become diseased, riddled with sores and small cuts. It whines and shudders like the featherless, vulnerable thing that it is. The calendar is superimposed upon it like those wax pencil lines the surgeon draws to plan his incisions. At certain points there seems to be nothing left to do but walk away. No panacea for the ill soft city. Nothing to do but kill it to end its suffering, or to turn away from it and wait until it becomes healthy again, in a changed state. In the meantime its pathetic groans keep one up at night.

Am remembering a line from the execrable David Lynch version of "Dune." Basso profundo voice speaking the words "Travelling without moving." Folding space, as they say. I remember the Guild Navigator character, something like a cross between a fetus and an anklosaurus. I don't like to think about monsters these days. A dark time, when somebody sets the ghosts against you. The ghosts my hearties. Pitcher-plant spit in my eyes and sand in my mouth. I need to go somewhere with scaly trees and darkeyed women.

Instead I'll go get lunch at the goddamned cafeteria and smoke a cigarette. Travelling without moving. Somebody give me a pill for that.