I would, I would be sadder. Perhaps it makes one more of a woman. Because of the sadness. It's why long is a verb. Made endless by a desert's distance. A frozen desert, in perhaps the only place on the planet where it isn't a metaphor. Umbrella shadows out the rest.
Ice slats. We can;t land in Ulaanbaatar, it's too windy. In your spotted whitelight sleep you dream. As the buildings triangle out wooden from round Mongolian gers as we head into Russia I realize how stranded I am, like he was in Dallas eight or nine months ago.
We stay on the tarmac for three hours since the transit authority wont let us use the transit hall. There is a zipping sounds that reverberates through the floor every time someone flushes. Irkutsk has a red sun, graveyards where to rust. The kind by the sea, crying. The monster of gold. Blue eyed ger camp. "I knew she was bad because she had the wrong kind of hat," I remember my mother saying as she washed vegetables she's just picked in the kitchen while I watched a Saturday morning cartoon special.
The characters keep escaping out of potholes.