The trees no longer have any modesty. The gaze never gets tired of any leaf. Mornings are wetter, concrete absorbs the plant juice. Soon there will only be flour left that will quickly be eaten by the wind and frost. The battlefield of the seasons requires silence. We observe and let ourselves be guided by the variable geometries, so many faintings, almost serenity.
Now, in these ephemeral mornings, I walk around thinking of nothing.