Two hands stem from my thoughts, as white as a guelder-rose, and grab the blue bird from the aviary, the lay figure, crushing it like it was never important. There is no sound, no wave licks on a beach, no crashing ocean. Everything falls silent when the music ends, the way I like it, the way I remember the salt of my breath. I sit before the cartridge paper, slowly breathing. My mind talks about stories of a forgotten reality, a land of dreams, where I wander off into the sky\'s canopy, into reveries. I go there and pick up the pieces of myself, the broken sunlight.