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Friday 9 November 2009   The coffee is lukewarm, but she doesn’t mind to drink it this way She speeds down the freeway; she has left the coast and the San Francisco Bay behind her, she has passed through the suburban towns of Hayward Dublin Livermore and travels inland toward the central highway of the state where there are no longer suburban towns and there is no longer heavy traffic and there is the city which lies at the southern end of the interstate, and so she moves quickly, presses the gas pedal down with her right foot to move the green car through space to in some five and half hours arrive to Los Angeles And the music is loud in the car because she wants it to play loudly and she has set the volume of the music player close to its highest setting to hear Glenn Gould’s vocalisations as he plays ‘The Art of Fugue Contrapunctus XIV’ She wants the companionship of his wide hums and refracted moans to accompany the yellow-dried fields of grasses passing by her, the hills roll down the highway, the California aqueduct winks bluely once and then again at her left like a wide blue eye and she wont see it again for two hundred miles, and her own persistent noises, the noisiness of bees of the motorised car of her thinking and of Gould’s golden mouth rising above the keyboard at his fingers’ edges and up into space and his dead articulations and the dead man playing the notes and humming along to the musical notations and the speed of the car and the fugue moves her forward towards the hour she will arrive hours from now to Los Angeles and she cannot stop this day moving forward moving towards her like a barricade, the black day continues apace and the sun running across the windshield of the car ‘The service is at one o’clock at the Catholic church near her mother’s house on Pico Boulevard’   ‘It’s funny, Fyodor, it was the best sex I have ever had, but that’s not enough This