The days start at 7 am and go until 11 pm. The good thing is, we walk a lot, so it’s not like I’m sitting around doing nothing. And all this stuff, in the global south, it doesn’t actually spin in a different direction, but it’s not the same as what we know, either.

I’m on the western edge of Australia. It’s a completely different ocean. I’m going to touch it later, and see if it knows anything new. I’m sure it does.

I’d like to propose a writing moment somewhere in this trip, but I haven’t found it yet. The ideas keep welling up, like they’re going to swamp the roads here and overcome me. I mean, I’m not blank or anything, I have ideas, all that stuff. The stuff. That’s what it’s called, when it builds up in you and requests admittance into this world. Please stay seated a little longer, I tell it. Don’t unbuckle, not just yet.

My new solar panels have produced 303 kWh in the last bit. An app tells me so.

Some stupid old man insisted that sending a book to the moon makes any difference. Did it make the book better? The largest black hole is something like sixty billion kilometres in diameter. Our signals are going to get there some day. Our matter is going to get there. Universal citizenship does not require a passport, or a rocketship.

I got music blasting in my hotel room. I think I will disturb my neighbours, and when they knock on my door to complain, I will invite them in for a mini-bar drink. I’ll tell them who I am, and what I’m doing here, but I won’t tell them about the stuff. I’m only telling you about that. Only you, whoever you are, wherever you are, happy or sad you may be, as I reach and reach and reach for whatever it is that links us together. Maybe it’s the stuff. Maybe it’s something we haven’t figured out yet, because science is slow, art is an exploration, and intersections between them can be measured in probabilities. Get on your bike. Touch an ocean. Say hello or good night, but make sure you say something.