I went to a French bookstore the other day and something strange and hauntingly familiar happened: a memory ( a desire of a memory) of a beautiful summer day in a field filled me with joy. I don’t know where it exists, if it was mine or something from the future, of a past, of a dream, of an idea; melancholic lapse of time, things too beautiful to create solid in the mind, but lay heavily, invisible on the heart.

So, yes---every day is new, and I’m peeling off everything as much as I can so that I can just live new to new to new to new. The foundation/home is in the soles of my shoes. I’m looking into getting some sturdy boots.

I love the roundness of his counterweights at the top, I love him for the narrowness of his jibs, I love him for the elegant lines of his gondola which is now covered for the winter. It's never really goodbye to anyone... I have told you many times before and I will many times repeat it, I love you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qE3pGYjz8Ws&feature=related