Work Stops At Sunset. Darkness

How Well I Would Write If I Were Not Here!

…we Can Not Love Or Think Except In Fragments Of Time Each Of Which Goes Along Its Own Trajectory And Immediately Disappears.

You Take Delight Not In A City's Seven Or Seventy Wonders, But In The Answer It Gives To A Question Of Yours.

It Was The Hour In Which Objects Lose The Consistency Of Shadow That Accompanies Them During The Night And Gradually Reacquire Colors, But Seem To Cross Meanwhile An Uncertain Limbo, Faintly Touched, Just Breathed On By Light; The Hour In Which One Is Least Certain Of The World's Existence.

To Fly Is The Opposite Of Traveling: You Cross A Gap In Space, You Vanish Into The Void, You Accept Not Being In A Place For A Duration That Is Itself A Kind Of Void In Time; Then You Reappear, In A Place And In A Moment With No Relation To The Where And When In Which You Vanished.