i'm reading this book, beside myself, and i can't say what it's about. it's a process of words. a procession. i open it and follow words into sentences and sift them in my mind as i go. as we go. the words are companions. some things are kept a long long time and then one day there comes a crisis or a need for decision—what is essential—what have we carried so long we didn't know was there. we carried the others' memory too. we carried it with ours. even if we had forgotten ours we carried theirs, and opening the others found what was essentially forgotten of ours. those things we become responsible for, left like cares, residue of dreams, who picked those flowers almost a lifetime ago, we open now, to light and air, to picture now
in this time of sifting dreams, flowers, residues, to find, that's it specific to another time, before, before this disintegration, before this struggle at home they call war, before isolation, on a sunny day in the past century on a mountain somewhere else in time, this remembrance of forgotten flowers, essential for today.