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It left me lonely like a thirsty man holding a cup, and I walked toward the Mexican Quarter with a feeling of sickness without pain.
she was down in an inferno of her own creation, so far away from me that the sound of my voice made the hiatus seem worse.
her flesh without meaning, her kisses like dead flowers, odorless in the garden of my passion.
I sat there and gave myself over to my blood, let it carry me swimming back to the deep sea of my beginnings.
The desert was always there, a patient white animal, waiting for men to die, for civilizations to flicker and pass into the darkness.
Faces like flowers torn from their roots and stuffed into a pretty vase, the colors draining fast.
Across the desolation lay a supreme indifference, the casualness of night and another day, and yet the secret intimacy of those hills, their silent consoling wonder, made death a thing of no great importance. You could die, but the desert would hide the secret of your death, it would remain after you, to cover your memory with ageless wind and heat and cold.
