Portobello Road was some sort of dream.
I didn't prefer London,
except this small corner that was laden with old things,
a valley of clocks and jewels,
rusty forgotten relics of humanity.
Whose to say what hands have held them
and which have passed,
buried and bygone.
Soaked film from various carnivals I have been attending. Spending so much time abroad has began within me some kind of search to find what is America, What I discovered so far is color, and sound, and strangeness.