CHANGE OF SCENE

All is identical. Yet there is something amiss. As if things are not quite filled out. And yet they are there nevertheless. Who can say what it is that differs. For being here we are bound to the connexions before us. Of which we are a part. Why then this incongruity so that the colours seem to shake in their sockets? And lift a little into the air above? We are waiting on tender hooks for things to settle back down but they never do. So we switch off and go outside.