Heading for Santa Fe.

I recall that as a young boy I felt a longing to travel to the Wild West, only it wasn’t the wildness of the west that fascinated me. It was the sense that here was the ultimate setting of the sun, and the setting of the sun was my goal, and the cow catchered train that sought to plunge headlong into the crimson and cloud-scattered sky was taking me home. And now it seems I feel the need to write like an Irishman. Must be in the blood (or the whiskey, or from reading Flann O’Brien for my sins.) But it’s all true.