I’m well.

The wild way Tristessa stands legs spread in the middle of the room to explain something, like a junkey on a corner in Harlem or anyplace, Cairo, Bang Bombayo and whole Fellah Ollah Lot from Tip of Bermudy to wings of albatross ledge befeathering the Arctic Coastline, only the poison they serve out of Eskimo Gloogloo seals and eagles of Greenland, ain’t as bad as that German Civilization morphine she (an Indian) is forced to subdue and die to, in her native earth.

—Jack Kerouac, Tristessa.

A y-shaped tree-trunk near home that I love.

Trunks by a rusty wire fence in the gully.

If all else fails, another photo of a seashell with a hand shadow.

Lots of trees today. The air’s hazy and a bit dull from the raging fires down in Big Sur.

My friend Jon Pearce sends a picture that may not make it onto his travel blog. We see here a Pompeian sculpture of, I guess, Pan getting it on with a goat.

Bruce Sterling checks in with a photo as well, of him in Melpignano, in Southern Italy. We’re nearly done with revising a new story we’ve been working on.