Richard Prince, Untitled (cowboy), 1989

Yesterday, I finally finished the book All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. At night I had a dream about riding a horse down the trail from Texas to Mexico. It was so weird because I'd never been to Texas or ridden a horse before, but somehow I still rode on without any hesitation. My lips got chapped from the blustering dry wind and my hair knotted and tangled. When I woke up I drank a mugful of water.

He thought that in the beauty of the world were hid a secret. He thought the world's heart beat at some terrible cost and that the world's pain and its beauty moved in a relationship of diverging equity and that in this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower.
Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses