Voices and whispers in different places in different cities and landscapes at different times by different trees and people and whatever leaves a trace in the thin air. You seem to turn to them more often than you turn to yourself.
What role does the unknown play there for you apart from affirming its openness? What is beyond or free from the calculated or its results, from the constructions and structures of any kind?
For this moment, nothing outside all, except the outside. This moment, here.