The days seem as they are fused with each other. The beginning consuming the end, and so the morning debuts once more. The colours a little more vivid than before. A gentle transition. From crimson red velvet to a faded salmon pink. Your eyes are resting on the fabric. Crushed velvet, shifting tones as you play with it in the light of the setting sun. If it was music it would be Gnossienne No. 3. Lent. Although you feel more like it is a farewell to what has been, now waiting to be broken down into soil and clay. And so days are transitioned into weeks….months, beyond winter solstice… Mileage, my dear, mileage….like the damned Sisyphus….being none the wiser….soldiers on, not ever reaching the peak, nor finding peace. The impoverished farmer tending the paddy fields, the last piece of land still his. Yet tomorrow, the floods will sweep away its ever coarse and infertile soil.

You ponder whether you are the farmer, his tools or the elements he is trying to harness. You still ponder, beyond your bedtime….to the music of Satie.