I thought of a clock and time went on.
The feeling that I’m waiting to receive an old-timey map, yellowed, with gods and leviathans swimming where I haven’t been yet, and the map will tell me where I must go next: a long journey that will require a different kind of bread. Dense. Full of rare hero elements. I will eat it and my legs will be fast. Have you ever eaten such bread?
At certain times, like after I have eaten a cold apple and had a shower, the journey feels immanent. Other times I misspell “immanent” and hate my legs.
I also don’t know who I’m talking to, but, like Odysseus, feel a need to keep speaking to huge craggy islands in the fog, as if to gods. Like when the doorbell plays “Oh say can you see,” and I go to the door, and nobody is there, and then a gust of wind and a plastic bag blows by.
No, it’s Virginia Woolf I’m thinking of, who spoke to the fog.
Here is the journey-feeling as VW describes it: “I have no surroundings.”