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Wisdom is a stain, a marking of rain and frosts, an acquired taste for the dark river.  Who could use so much ink?  All the black tears of a human life inscribe a palimpsest so dense nothing is legible.  But it’s an ancient impulse, irresistible as breathing itself and born of the same instinctive need –  even in the ashes of burned cities, a hand will still reach out and draw a butterfly on a wall.  So watch the flight of birds, blow sweet tunes on old saxophones, grow roses, paint an apple, because to do nothing is inhuman.
I mean, you know, if you have time between getting home from work and going to bed.

 

Black Cat
Scissors
Bluetit
Winter
Hastings Boat
Green Apple
Wasp
Knife and Fly
Sparrows
Pigeon