Living in a state of constant wistful despair, perhaps, will be my destiny, said the traveller.

Longing to be touched by you, will perhaps, be mine, whispered back the horizon.

In eternity when there is no time, there is no growth, there is no change. Everything which is was everything that was.

The step-by-step matching of our internal rhythms—circulation, respiration—to the deliberate universal rhythms that surround, lull, rock, yoke us, is renounced when we set off in an automobile, at an insane speed, to simply cancel out distances, change locations, swallow up miles.

I imagine a line, a white line, painted on the sand and on the ocean, from me to you.

There is a third dimension to traveling, the longing for what is beyond.

Horizons, cheap whisky straight from the bottle
and your hands in mine.