Barcelona, 5 P.M.

Day 1 is apparently at its end. This is just one out of 31 days. I need rest. I have not slept in approximately 26 hours - that, my friends, is fucked up. Henry Miller will lull me to sleep with sweeping discussions of hairy grasping cunts.

Giacomo a.k.a. Deepman a.k.a. Colonel Kurtz, PhD. met me at the airport and we caught a bus to the city center where we met up with his father, who brought us to a renovated apt. that belongs to Giacomo´s brother. No hot water, and no bedframe for the mattress to sit on, but shit, I´m not complaining. Beggers can´t be choosers and having my own flat for a few days in a very cool part of town is nothing to complain about at all! Not that this town is cool, temperature wise.

The more I think about it the more I think this trip will lead me back to Paris. All this writing, all this reading Henry Miller, it seems like the place I should end up at. Yes, I long to get drunk at La Cupole, to drink coffee on the sidewalk. I´ll go to the city of light and stare it in the face. I will be a literary cliche, unashamed.

3:00 A.M.

I awake to the sound of Catalan screams and silverware slapping against dishes. Either a meal to wash down late-night drinks or some day laborers preparing for an early shift. Part of me wants to get up and go, to walk the mid-night streets of Barcelona under the moon, but I know that might not be so safe. I´ve been sleeping since 5 P.M. My only real option is to sleep more but I don´t know how much of a possibility that really is at the moment.

god, I am so conscious of myself-as-photograph or myself-as-movie-clip, I wish I smoked cigarettes so I could stand here at the balcony nursing one in the strange light of early morning. THat seems fitting.

As much as I am striving to be here and now I really can´t help but wonder what on earth will become of me along the way, down the line. Barcelona is beautiful, but I long to hit the road.