It was that down to earth gauziness only the countryside in Uppland could achieve:

The heavy and frail scents of rotting leaves and plowed furrows captured in fog and a peculiar dark light, inside mystery and living heritage laid under beautiful melancholy and a trembling apparent comfort.

It is mostly inside me that something is happening, it seems.

Other participants in the old springs and autumns of memory are too busy performing and embarrassing each other by asserting their exclusive rights to live more superficially than others. So I have heard...



Right now:

A night storm of the milder kind is tearing at the trees and gnawing at the houses. Few notice this in a similar way.



Here there is time, a lot of time, to brood over the sorrow of betrayal while I observe everything in its pitifulness and grandeur.




My access to the rare beauty captured in memories is my survival tactic.