I feel a vague nausea stroking and tapping the lining of my stomach. The hand holding the burning cigarette travels sideways like a storm cloud drifting over the open desert. How far can I reach? I’m in a car traveling the folds of the southwest region of the country and the road is steadying out and becoming flat and giving off an energy like a vortex leading into the horizon line. I’m getting closer to the coast and realize how much I hate arriving at a destination. Transition is always a relief. Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom. It’s the preferable sensation of arriving at a movie fifteen minutes late and departing twenty minutes later and retrieving an echo of real life as opposed to a tar pit sensation. Destination is an entry point for the practitioners of the fake moral screens.
- David Wojnarowicz, Close To The Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration
