This tile made of red hexagons . This avenue of rustling trees of a rainy spring . The staircase with the wrought iron railing . This day under the door of the room which lets rise the bursts of voice coming from the dining room . These windows with their old-fashioned fittings . This poorly fixed wooden shutter that beats against the wall when a gust of wind rises . Like the cupboard with its mirror glass from a time stored .
Be there in the shadow of things in place sitting in the smashed chair webs of badly negotiated ideas enturbaning my thoughts memories chanted by a small inner voice I took my clicks and my slaps picture box and moleskin notebook to go on a pilgrimage to the scents of yesteryear .
Cold and rain changed the dark air in the middle of the afternoon discrete passage to this state of listening allowing to be disposed stone on which to build the city of brothers Heavenly Jerusalem without her angels made visible Jerusalem just existing to welcome the soul walker in search of a probable detour towards the premonitory state of repentance looking for breath and light to ride on researcher returned to his task the hoop of a then obsolete croquet game before the mallet of emptiness the promoter of desired encounters those that availability without waiting allows to hatch even during off-peak hours as the crumpled song of rain and mixed colors rises from between the ash trees and the elms in the bright and fragrant garden phrasing of tears in spring at the confluence of sound loads of raging water scraping invisible pebbles pots of giants .
