Modifié le : 2019/07/13

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.