Raring to go without a clue. Two young Norwegian women who asked me to dance in the Tiger Leaping Gorge. Accidentally stumbling upon some open-air lovemaking. The bumbling caricature "Henry Miller" as a creation of the sophisticated artist Henry Miller. Life lessons from Krishnamurti in Varanasi. A beautiful woman asks that we take off our clothes and lie in bed, without touching, all night. I am taken in hand. Queer literature and the FOMO it caused, Okay with you if I say I'm queer. That's what I think.

Back at the Singing Beach in Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts. The elasticity of time. Apple-time as troop time. Porous borders between dream and wakefulness. Frederick Douglass's escape into states of Protestant watch-winding. Mirror and related deaths. Erotic past times: shadows of 90s trysts right there, at the Singing Beach. Or with groups of Harvard College classmates building bonfires, skinny-dipping, taking tokes. Time as cyclical rather than linear. Eros and the ineluctable presentness it requires.

Sunning on The Singing Beach on Bastille Day, 2024, Chris Hosea endows himself. Tattoos. Chats about President Biden publicly calling Zelensky "Putin," and Kamala Harris "Vice-President Trump." Leaving the poetry world, just in time. Varanasi temples as always morphing, growing, unfixed, unfolding. The particularity of sun in Nairobi. Humor as workplace sabotage McCann conference rooms. Kids tossing balls around a Marcel Duchamp's "First Papers of Surrealism" (at Duchamp's instruction). Why can't I be queer, too?