Ah, if only he could write things that conveyed the same colourful ambiguities as the pictures he took. But then he wished that his pictures could capture smells and sounds, or the way that a deserted-looking petrol station in the midday sun was transformed because someone nearby was playing a song by Patsy Cline. Refractions of sense through other senses, or contexts, brought about a peculiar satisfaction, one that was felt to be higher that either of them by itself. But when the refracting sense was the kind of embodied thinking found in writing he felt given over to inadvertent accident, as if by trying to yoke together the divergent aspects of thought and feeling he had triggered their mutual non-recognition, their joint blindness. The thinker was too much awake, but awake like an insomniac, when his ideal was to always live as if he were dreaming, allowing to every encounter its mysterious portentousness, its opening onto unforeseeable digression.