Deleuze's transcendental empiricism

I'm back from where roads go up and down from nowhere.

I know it's been a long day when I can put everything I've seen into it.

Somewhere east of Winnemucca I see what it might be like to live in a place there are no words for, and that it's a gold mine.

Overhear the World Series on a hotel tv--"what a time to take your first postseason at-bat this postseason,"--and can't believe what I'm hearing. It turns out to be the voice of Harold Reynolds, once a major league 2nd baseman and now a baseball commentator for Fox Sports, who doesn't know what he's just said.

My book bag is filled with moderate page-turners by Jonathan Franzen, Thomas McGuane, and Thomas Fuller but I'm left wondering if my time may be better spent reading Chekov.

Rain in The Sierras, rain and more rain, millions of gallons of rain, but the more it rains the less it snows.

By the time I roll into San Francisco, crossing the Bay Bridge, I see that I've been here many times before though it never quite looks the same.