Tonight I just wanted to say stupid things without knowing to whom to say really. Who cares? Who is affected? That would be (good) height? The little things are fragile, they do not survive well in contempt, they do not survive well the great difficulties of life we are experiencing, we believe, valiantly. The little things are there for the eyes that see them by searching the horizon for idle thoughts that crawl from tree to tree looking for a little bit of what merry. Tonight I ran into the park, there was the smell of wet grass, flower petals and white crushed into the sand of the road and the water dark and shimmering this kind of pond, disturbed occasionally by the circles of fish coming to drink air. And the sun was a little on my face, and leaves of this tree form so strange and so clear, so green. A maple tree?
I like the obliquity of the evening sun, and the texture of plastic when fresh grass tangled his fingers along the stems. I like having the feeling of escape time - I like being able to succumb to the illusion. Walk in swinging his arm leaving a lot to the side and watch his shadow flicker on the curb. Small things look all stupid when they are stacked; likely to live and do say very little. But they share and for a moment I felt really sad to be alone to collect them.
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