It's too bad. Here there's change, I'm trying to project my mind's eye onto walls and seeing myself twelve months later and full of uncertainty hope and doubt and all that. Touchingly here and there I'm walking back doing these invisible dances in trainful underbellies wondering, thinking.

When I enter someone's home, in the process of this hobby of mine (entering others' homes in search of one of my own) I usually take off my headphones and slip my left arm out of the straps of my backpack and let it hang askew, asymmetricality lending informality to my posture. The weight difference lifts my left foot off the ground slightly. I scan the bookshelves for authors I recognize, sometimes none, sometimes the usual suspects, sartre rushdie marquez plato shakespeare mamet and whatnot.

I'm not sure how this is relevant but I ordered the GPS logger and at the same time I felt myself withdraw and disconnect more. A lack of communication verified, attempted translation into the wanderings of my physical location seen orthogonal to this flat earth, this mortal coil.

change and solitude permeates my summer.