While time leaves no trace

Not the listening as such but its writing of itself and our reading of it that shapes this moment making the personal a dispersed general state and the general the most personal elation in a natural kindness, while time leaves no trace as it is losing its purpose and usefulness, your face turns towards the wind from the sea, the tiny droplets of water from the long gulf. A moment that repeats itself gracefully and steadily, a clearest sign of a benign presence. A thirsty one too. A tender thirst, and somehow brutal too, that nourishes us. A tree reaches out to us, its treeness comes closer and starts talking to us as the trunk emits a smooth thoughtfulness. The grass on the ground and we turn northwards. Then southwards where now I am waving.

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