Feeling how the fields rest still before the coming Winter's mourning work.


(The loss. The emptiness. The meaninglessness. The unemployment...)


Physically reconnecting with the most imprinted landscape view of my childhood.


I have a soft bond in my heart to the village and all the formations of the region.

Cleaning myself here step by step until the whole is included, or comes in...




It blows cold. Cutting. Sharpening.

Taking out the steps as the frost grows beneath me.




In the inner gaze are memories:

Old life lies now smoothed over, but still left as a warning. The hardness. The weakness. The weight. Life in an alleged favour. Sawn off time. The small twigs and leaves of the branches rot quickly.



In the outer gaze are new and fresh memories:

A cleansed reality. Something not yet judged by daylight and is of such an indeterminate nature.



(Taking a last throw of hesitation before choosing myself.)