There seemed to be only beauty on the ground this morning. Oh, there was the morning light, the promise that the day would be beautiful. There was also the refreshing air, purer than usual—autumn and winter make us believe that the cold will destroy the toxic fumes and waste produced by the human race—there was assuredly this anonymity of the passers-by who let me wander quietly.
But what about it? Nothing worthwhile, but a rift, a crack in the gaze in search of silence, of what is dying right now. In a park, not the one I walk through most of the time, but this one further north, a few blocks away, I squatted down. There, the sun shaved death, provoked it by warming its ice, played with the skin of the leaves.
We never get tired of this season, which promises us tougher times. We do not get tired of this astonishment. In this way, we can probably tame the moment when we offer our flesh to the pleasure of a morning that will be foreign to us.