Earth fables moving so quickly that none of us can comprehend where they are rooted, from what source they are flowing. Children speak with the hermit, asking questions that require no answer. On a boat into the Arctic Night, on a raft somewhere in a grey zone between continents where octopuses find shelter. Or can we let in the poets and the painters, recreate the fables on the far edges of time, wandering into those places that have no name and that crumble upon sight?
Language has dark roots, blazing on the tongue, swallowed silently at night when the din of the world dies down and something more tenacious, more fragile floats around us. The first strokes with a new brush are bold and hold the light well, roots carefully planted, surrounded with transparent stones and the soft moss from northern woods.
September 28, 2026
