Finding words . . .

A city of 3.4 million . . . strutting magpies . . . Die Sehenswürdigkeiten und Unordnung of a new language . . .

But I'm finding words. Tales are forming . . .

The butterflies, dressed in hesitation and feeble, breathe their perfume in the flood-tide cage, but they are of no importance. Their expressions are forgotten towns of unarmed ghosts.

Bile is a dagger, a pirate, a voyage of eats and wings and uneven in wild skin. Spleen, a pin at the entrance of a butterfly.

What confidentials would Ellroy see? What would Chambers, or Bloch, take from gem-like moments on the edge of madness?

A stranger in a strange land . . . Berlin . . . Watching . . . Listening . . . Breathing the alchemic contours and palette of a different Yellow Book . . .

Finding new words . . .