Saturday, August 02, 2014


I can’t imagine what someone who owns a lighthouse must look like. I imagine it is a man–it must be a man–and he must be quite old and wrinkled. Of course it could be a woman: old, wrinkled, and smoking a pipe. Those lovely sweaters from Norway? What are they called? And those blue caps?What are the lonely people who own lighthouses called? They must be that. Recently I was told that no one owns a lighthouse–that they belong to all of us. Long ago I was told: don’t worry, there are no more lighthouses. And now that they’re gone, they belong to no one. And no one will ever grow old, or cold. No one will find their way. Let’s sit down and draw a lighthouse, to keep us warm and safe and lost. Like the old days. You will never be lonely as long as this exists. You will never know your way. And tomorrow–what will I be told?

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