In the middle of "occupation"
And am I to make a tank, a collection and then an exhibition. Or should I let them flow and trickle away like an autumn flood or raindrop of spring? After the toil I had so little humidity lingering in my brain and chest but too much of that will choke me aussi. Yet water and flesh are never of the same substance also we can never ever ever be as one. I imagine my bosom as a field barren with an only pond exactly like the tangible world outside and what do I see? In its reflection someone smiling wistfully or weeping joyfully who is not exactly me?
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