There were cows grazing in the flats of this day, and on the heights of this day there were houses that stuffed out puffs from their chimneys even though so much sun was reaching the valleys of things. The seedlings are forgetting about their cotyledons; they have real leaves now. The air is a milk again.
I am speaking in my own voice now. The moment there is no story what do you feel?
In one room of the house we found there was a door leaned against a wall. A small photograph of a woman’s face had been taped to the door. A silver sword leaned with its blade between the door and the wall. I recognized the sword.
Intimacy with things not breathing.