Evening. Outskirts. The stories of many individual pasts. And a park. // đˇ 366skiesÂ
Drei Formen: Eicheln, Moos, und eine Feder, in der noch letzter Tau hängt. Blätter treiben auf reglosem Teich. Libelle als stummer Gast. Den eigenen Puls schlagen hÜren. Irgendwo immer etwas abseits des Trubels.
Close to 10am. Tracing the sun on a bright sky, almost halfway through the day without anything accomplished at all. Not even not feeling slightly guilty for that. Measuring, defining success, as an ongoing inner battle.Â
Later. Outside, under the night that's moving in again. // đˇ 366skiesÂ
10am and on. Of rivers and waves and knuckle-deep puddles on old roads. Of hidden sun and an immense though somewhat bright greyness wrestling late summer green. Random stories of old, a ringtone nearby resembling the dialup sound of a 56k modem prior to submerging in a digital void for hours again. Travelling obscure libraries. Pondering through disputable knowledge. It used to be calmer out there in there.