Almost noon, Sunday. Tree-mottled shadows spread over the pebbled pavement, as the sun begins to heat my back. I long to see the world as his Singapore was air-conditioned and pleasant. Mine was hot and crowded. His was the Singapore of great cuisine; mine was the Singapore of fried noodles and the amah's soy sauce. I had no telephone, I swam in a miracle again. Is it only a matter of facing time?

There is a tree, bare except for a small clump of white flowers blooming on a bough. Carefully pruning this region, it's time to wake up...

A postcard today from David Rosen, "on a relaxing two day visit to Yosemite," writing of "the sacred grove àla Maraposa--the manifestation of the Supreme Being's inner trees," in his doctor's scrawl.

Even as oxidation leaves
its scattered parts less confused,
August earth undergoes spells
of flowering bodies.

With heads planted on hunched shoulders, pants hitched above bloated waists, two old men chatter, while picking up leaves, and tossing them a true noun, an isolated thing, does not exist in nature. Things are only the terminal points, or rather the meeting points, of actions, cross-sections cut through actions, snapshots. Neither can a pure verb, an abstract motion, be possible as a series of images but as a reading event, as text: the idea of architecture as text; architecture that is not arbitrary and without recall to type-form, or natural or divine origins; an architecture that is modificational, in the sense that its only transformation is the modification of its own structure. Its only motivation is an internal one to reach its next state of being and then it begins again in nature, as the arrogance of heavy metal changes gears.