The winter afternoon is beautifully dying in silence; a gray face crossed by timid golden threads of sun. The peace comes all along in solitude and calmness and in all the sounds the little dwellers of the kitchen make in quite content... The trees dance happily in the wind, humming wind. The universe of sins and memories past bestows a moment of truce. A potato becomes potatoes and one would hope to live this peace for ages to come.
Ten, fifteen years ago I could pray in the night the songs of Glenda. Today I basically contradict the principle and substitute the sacred questioning by the truth I have been baking during all these years. Gross mistake? Perhaps. I intend to get this world straight, but ain't feeling good... .
Ah!
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