Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculite patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

A beautiful ending to a book that makes sleep seem both terrible and sweet–’The Road’ by Cormac McCarthy. The closest anyone I’ve read  has gotten to what seems to me the literary ideal: to say something that with the greatest care declairs there is nothing to say at all.

I made this video as well. Its footage from Paris that I aimlessly gathered for a documentary I was supposed to make, and never really got around to because it was too aimless.  It has as much to do with the above as anything, but deserves undivided attention as I spent way too many hours trying to figure out Final Cut.  Satyr Sartre, give me liberty and give me death. Oh la la.