... I sip my tea and read an article by Leach. I feel the constant pressure of a background of destruction,  but there's a fine light, and calm, that envelops the city, beaten by the haze of an eastern wind...

... and I go on cultivating the vague and permanent feeling that a definite and elect pair of legs is far away saving itself and waiting for me so that it may finally unfold.

*

if an unexpected bellyache is already so aleatory, associating it to the arrangement that made this tree the way it is now, it's alien presence, it's bearing, the foliage, the oscillations it makes under the exact breeze of the moment, and I, here, looking at it and in such a squatting posture, the fatal theoretical certainty of the eternal return, before the immeasurable but necessarily finite sum of facts and rules, submits to the organic insult of the lowest empirical precariousness.