All that was done is gone. Without light. Burst of wind in the face. But not knowing from which direction its blowing. Recognising change. Summer to Autumn. Or summer to winter.
Because you like to play. Make life fun. Gravity reduction isn’t superficial.
Alone in a strange place. Treading familiar paths. Matters of coincidence. The past returns to establish a further history. Looking for clues. Failure is an attempt to live or occupy a space in the future.
Rue Chapon in Paris. I was there. The gallery was closed. But should have been open. Fuck; an exhibition of work by Japanese photographer, Tenmei Kanoh.
Another stone. Another mound. Passing years without a handle. Tears and fears of the bereaved. Acceptance of the cycle. Forceps to knell. If you wait then you will not have lived. Events of a life not established. Make no document. Present no experience. I am fond of wild flowers in meadows and hillside. Wreaths, bouquets. Do flowers somehow soften the blow that you are gone. A loved one.
In the smallest of gardens I sit on a metal chair. Raindrops splashing on dried summer leaves. The text in my hand is by Roland Barthes. About his mother. A diary, the book is incomplete.