Last night, Zorn and I, rather hair-brainedly, ate some more of the pink poppies on the northern rim. This morning, I found the following note written in the sand, and tracks leading out to the sea.
“I awoke to discover that, during the night, I had learned to understand the language of the birds. I have listened to them ever since. They say: “Look at me!” or: “Get out of here!” or: “Let’s fuck!” or: “Help!” or: “Hurrah!” or: “I found a worm!” and that’s all they say. And that, when you boil it down, is about all we say. (Which of those things am I saying now?)”
–Hollis Frampton, Filmmaker, Ornithologist