Details start to interest me again in an unimportant way. It is with greater distance that I notice the sweatest sense of detailed impressions. This binocular view, like an ant crawling in a tree to the very end of its branches, implants a separated love, purely spiritual and forms a conversation of the eye with the entities of the world that form no part of itself. My eyes are soaked with the sweat and excerpt of light. But without attachment for purely spiritual, without bonding I attach for purely of the soul.

A Homeric god I fancy, sways down and stretches out his hand, a firm blow from the majestic depth of his lungs to affirm the outcome of fate. I watch through a virtuel microscope, the millions of rod cones directed by that same invisible hand focus in and send a magnificent signal to the optic nerve,the grape-vine of history. Alas truth! Truth does not even play an insignificant role in this whole proces, as if truth mattered any time!

This is why I love the rain, the rains, the drops, each drop. I do not miss a single tap on the stones, and they bombard my eardrums like wild African drummers. On their rythm I see, each wavelength of light on its own delivers its color and I wave them together to a wonderful tapistry. This is why I love the sky, because it carries the sight of all things, because its impregnated of color, invisible to man but visible as a transparent spy.