Red notebooks. Blue. Black. Yellow. Never green. I don’t know why not green, maybe some autistic glitch or allergy. Just never green. Over thirty years’ worth of notebooks, in which sketches and impressions have been dutifully registered, recorded, preserved. Mind-breaths capsuled and contained, an ongoing play sans curtains or stage. Manic mental needlepoint continuously sketching spates and rivets of time from thin restless air. Hordes and hordes of circular messages, returned to a sender who always sends again. Battered notebooks packed into a valise. The valise doesn’t exist. I just enjoying saying and writing the word valise, I like to imagine this valise in which battered and bruised notebooks are stored, it is effect to the cause of me heading down to that station where I will wait for that train which never arrives, that will take me to that place I will never reach. Sometimes the valise is battered too. And heart-shaped. Sometimes it is maroon. Never green.