Last night, I walked across the mesas, in house slippers, to stay alive. It is amazing how much easier moving across the desert becomes, if someone just turns-out the lights. The sand and white rock cleanly glowed as they radiated the day’s light back toward the night sky. While I have often wondered whether it was the heat or the light that fueled the insanity of such notorious Southwestern figures as Hunter S. Thompson and Edward Abbey; I have little doubt that it was actually the desert night sky that kept them alive through innumerable opportunities for an earlier death.
Between one and three in the morning, time and space seem much more important than commonly recycled myths and irrelevant dogma. Standing at the beginning of emptiness, in nothing more than plaid pajama bottoms and a paint-stained t-shirt; I am immediately aware of the vast potential of the human condition. The illicit and elusive factor known as the soul overtakes my passion in a moment of seamless dharma. I did it without faith, I did it without help. In a single instant, I am at once both lost and found. The phantom has left. - North