[JANUARY 2025.]
…and with his erratic, irregular gait, as if he had pebbles in his shoes, he would make his way to dissolute Avenida Floral, that impertinent ramshackle avenue with its little rusting houses, where prostitutes, transsexuals, and young homosexuals stood leaning, shielded by the lampposts’ dim light, and the food carts and the little windows of the stores. Immune to the air, the cold, the fear, Katzuo crossed the gas station goaded on by delight, approached the open lots, and stationed by the wall, there in the street, hallucinatory, he stared captivated…
Augusto Higa Oshiro, The Enlightenment of Katzuo Nakamatsu, tr. Jennifer Shyue
There is something new on those particular blocks of Market or Telegraph—in good lighting, of course, when the danger radar isn’t going off. The weird ease of knowing what kind of trash you are, that it’s exactly the trash one is supposed to find in these neighborhoods.
Thank you emotion, I’m ready for the recollected in tranquility part now.
The sun’s chariot never gets too high these days. I think there’s not enough feed for the horses.
When melancholy comes down feather-light, not enough to tip the scale, that’s the sweet spot. A cat in a sunbeam, that’s all I am. The bliss of an empty hour. Watching motes vector in 3-space, squandering God’s gifts. Like some other things Dante had to come down hard on.
