Tour

That may have been our last meal on the road. It was window-side to my left, and I faced the back. Think she-spent the time of our Turkish breakfast and ossified-coffee, accustoming me to the place I would soon be. She gave me many warnings. She lectured me on the ways to get around in Istanbul, and the customs I would encounter. She was going to drop-me into a cauldron of swirling vapors, absent any already-mind, except walled-city. And she-knew I could not appreciate the testament. "Look you lunk-head. This is serious-stuff." But she didn't put it like that.

I took the train back to Venice. I could have gone first-class, with a compartment of my own. It cost more-money. She had given me money for second-class only. Bit of a cheapy there I thought. I could have easily made up the difference, but what did I know ? A night-long second-class Italian train ride had not taught me a lesson already ? I didn't know what I was getting into. It was a sentimental journey, and I was in love-lost, sick as puppy-eyes. And I had three days to inundate and sweat-out my lust-lost. Oh my dear Epeck, I still love you.

Course I could not say that. It was something ignomious about my culture of Nordic Luthernism. Men can't say I love you to women or to infinity for that matter. Why don't we love ? We love, we love, and we know we love. We just can't say that we love. It's an unmentionable, unspeakable, like "He who cannot be named.", why don't I say ? Because love is worship. Don't you see it. I worship you in every-way, in every-action, performing for you, signing-you, entertaining clownmanlike, showing-off, cracking jokes and puns, like-spitting firecrackers.

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