What will change? What is changing? It seems like I come back to the same day, streched out, fading slightly, even becoming a little dry... and I come back, just like the others do. We pass through these structures and stabilities, following our memories ahead of us like a book already written, anonymously, each line the type growing smaller in towards the binding - the paths... and it will never close or be rewritten. It cannot be reread. The sun is shining here and it's as if I don't know where to go or where it is I belong. I sit like a child and see for myself how everything has chosen to move - the trees, slowly; my house, and my neighbor's house; these clouds from this wind... There are some things which seem to stay for me - a smell I can find in a book on Modigliani; the back-of-the-backyard, and garage... Even the air itself has kept itself for me when I return here, passing through as I do now... so briefly, carried away by life. There will be a time here, at this house, when no one will come to greet me upon my arrival and continuing motion - when I will be left standing alone long after what I have written here, filled with love and memory, transported helplessly forward in a permanent way as I choose to come back, just like the others do.