Another morning brushes the houses of my street with sunlight.
It would even look nice, the way it is right now,
Quite difficult to take good photos, at least the way I like, I don’t know it’s right to call them good.
It might give to the adjective a too categorical and absolute meaning.
I wonder what I want to do in reality, with this imaginary notebook.
Maybe I want to make an attempt to think over, by writing...
Thinking over...another face of individualism, I suppose.
Wasting time to think over in a kind of small enclave, as if it was the whole world.
I cannot claim to know the entire field only running up to its borders, if I don’t fully know my own clod first.
Then maybe I’ll find out that every clod is like the field.