Leaving America. Reminded again, as I look at the morning sky, of something Steven Soderbergh said in an interview I read in New York: this country is “too fucking big.” Almost tempted to swing through Hollywood Boulevard on the way to the airport, to see if there are still people at Robin Williams’ star. I could have gone there last night, or to one of the comedy clubs on Sunset. Instead, I stayed in my room, answered messages,watched ghoulish tv news crews flit around the front of his house, rolled my belt and put it in my bag. Ready to be out from under America’s weird pressure for a while.

On the balcony, a small drone buzzes me. I can see its operator, just, on the roof of the apartment building opposite. A police helicopter clatters overhead as the clouds burn off. There’s a dead candle in the bottom of the courtyard pool. The lightbulb over this table just crackled and went dark. It is, again, time to move on.