On the shores, casks slowly seep out their perfume, bleeding into the earth, into silence. Because what we were hunting after could not be discovered, because the mind’s life (unlike the heart's, threaded gossamer on a single strand) is fascinated by the knotted roots of things, we sought out fertile motions on sullen shores.

Any water that becomes a stream, flooding lands and muddying walls, any object which splinters into a million fragments at once, will someday stand stone-still and surrender to the quiet erosion, the soundless wind which rustles the pages of time.

Here on the wasted plains a faded flower suddenly blossoms out.

book of the wastelands
by Kamil Sznajder & Hugo Kaszycki @sznajd.er @huqoo0
text by Halo (Torre Alain)
Upper Silesia, April 2021