HOUSES ARE THE GRAVES of the living, so the Tuareg proverb runs. And on Sundays, in the torpor of the suburbs, those graves lie still indeed.
Even in these spaces — with their Monday deadlines, cold coffee, and memories of Friday nights spent evading existential questions in alcohol — the world can yet find you. To give you the fat kick in the pants you need to remind you that it’s out there, and it’s more fantastical than you’ve tasted even the half of.
So here’s a kick to the dead weight of a weekend in the suburbs. In the cameras of Returning to Nomadism and the much older words of Byron:
So, we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.