A lot of times, I'm not concerned with what a place looks like.
What does the air feel like? Does the chill hit your sense of smell with a crisp fragrance of fresh grass and a distant scent of the sea? Does it smell of the mossy woods?
What would my skin have to remember of the first sensation of a place?
It thrills me to think that the air could rush at me like sheets of paper. The idea that the warmth of the sun might feel different in a different hemisphere, in a different time zone. The shabby notion that all the world is the same-- places are just places-- is beyond me.
The road has become a habit.
Sense, a novelty.
What does the air feel like? Does the chill hit your sense of smell with a crisp fragrance of fresh grass and a distant scent of the sea? Does it smell of the mossy woods?
What would my skin have to remember of the first sensation of a place?
It thrills me to think that the air could rush at me like sheets of paper. The idea that the warmth of the sun might feel different in a different hemisphere, in a different time zone. The shabby notion that all the world is the same-- places are just places-- is beyond me.
The road has become a habit.
Sense, a novelty.
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