I sound like Homer. I mean Winslow Homer.
Knowledge is the harvest of attention
There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only/ eyes in all heads,/ to be looked out of.
This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.
There is a grace of life which is still yours, my dear Europe.
You can read everybody. It's not even interesting to tell the truth because to some extent it's false.