It could be the first of May. It could very well be raining. Dallas is the place where I will have to find something else to do with my time. It is not a difficult thing, finding things, not in this place. It might be difficult to settle in on a choice, however. Every choice looks at first like it must be the best choice, because it is the only choice. The moments go on, and more choices present themselves, and it’s starting to become apparent that there is no only choice. Moments like these I will go back to my room, back in my Dallas hotel, and reassess the situation from there.
The room is nice. There’s space in this room, almost enough to make it look and feel roomy. This is perhaps just as it should be. I have my doubts, anyway. At the end of the day, I always have my doubts. I have showered and I have also eaten something. They tell me it is an armadillo and they laugh. This is probably terribly terribly funny, and when I try to laugh, too, they don’t try to make me laugh any more. I have been told that my smile is not a pretty thing to look at, and that it’s better if I just refrain. That advice suits me well. I would rather be thinking about the rain.
But it is not raining. It is not raining any more today, nor tomorrow, is what they say. I still have hope. This is too much, this weather. I can’t find my way around when everything is lit. It is all for the best, because I have no place to go. Because I have no place to go, I go to the opera, where I might be able to see myself on the stage, telling my story to myself, if it is in French. It is not in French, it is in Italian. I am lost, and there is nothing on the stage to remind me of me, and I realize, with sorrow, that I will perhaps never be able to wear buffalo horns. Such things are not up to me, decided long before I set foot in Dallas, where I am inordinately happy, but not smiling, and not raining.
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