there's a mirror in boredom and the reflection makes it impossible to distinguish between myself and the place i'm in. somewhere along in time i started to look the other way. maybe it was in the beginning. maybe i started out looking the other way and that's why i can't recognize the place i'm in. 

roni horn                                                                                                                         island zombie: iceland writings                                                                               mirror, desert and mirror                                                                                                not being here

~i put the last sentence in italics to see if it was different than the preceding lines. if i put myself in the paragraph i think, i can recognize the place i'm in, though it may feel alien. but it's her perspective and her past and present and her time in a landscape, iceland, where i've never been. she wrote about emily dickinson who almost never left her room, and how she traveled there, independent of the external particulars of physical travel. i might locate myself somewhere between dickinson and horn. looking the other way, looking in.