I've been thinking about the day and how it sliced like a sheet across the sky, the blue water line of the horizon teetering like a saw, like a glimmer of a glass edge. I wonder about my eyes -- about the accuracy of their vision, about the notes I make with my hands, my nails. I am especially attentive to surfaces -- how they are rough or smooth, or hot or cool, and how my own skin is a surface that changes, that you can touch. I am without a winter, without a new year. The things here, if there are changes, are more like rearrangements of predictable weathers. or else, one day it is one way -- extreme -- cold and black -- and the next the blue sky balminess soothes us back into a sort of dreamy submission. I get so much less done here, in California. My own body has become more solid -- in response I think the abundance of air. Looking out into the ocean, there is so much sky, so much space. My lungs feel frail, a pair of dusty wings, a pair of sheer, shallow winds that barely keep my here.