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I do not seek, I find.

Pablo Picasso, 1881–1973

Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole

Jonathan Richman, "Pablo Picasso," ca 1973

Born in Spain, died in France, he was not scared of baggy pants

Guy Clark, Radney Foster & Bill Lloyd, "Picasso's Mandolin," Guy Clark, Boats to Build, 1992


The bus rolled south and then east, over a surprisingly smooth stretch of blacktop. What else could a poor boy do but listen to the sounds of a little evening? The locomotion was king and Persian pop music crackling over the radio mingled with the almost-rhythm of the reign as the axles rose 'n' guns slapped against the luggage racks. Reverie passing for meditation supplied the in-flight entertainment. Words fled, pictures dissolved. Movement and industrial sounds were all that were left, white noise in the darkness till the clocks lost the beat of time, preferring to stand still for hours and then jump (ah, but they never [well, hardly ever] went back) to some random hour that pleased them.

When the lights were on above the aisle, those that hadn't burnt out, the night was black and impenetrable, existence itself limited to the caterwauling chunk of steel and glass. Soon enough, the driver killed them, and the eerie landscape stole into focus, all grays from charcoal to pearl, broken only by the dim yellow of Lucas headlights and the occasional flash and glow of cigarettes within. Once or twice, the distance showed a glimmer of fire, perhaps a lantern; some of the darker shadows might have been tents or houses; otherwise, the absence was absolute.

Hurtling into a void, relaxed and out of control.