The sky is dyed in midnight blue. A thin stripe of the moon gives an impression of either a smile, or a sneer. The wind and the candle flame resume their nonverbal dancing ritual.

– All mismatches result from the difference in intensity.

A voice as dry as the pecking sound on a tree trunk breaks the silence. In response, another silvery voice gently asks.


– Like when a bubble bursts, or a volcano erupts.


– Materials can’t stay balanced under inhomogeneous forces, so they rupture.

The wind gushes through and the flame collapses.

I’m on it

The silvery voice hastily speaks up and draws out a match, strikes it twice and cautiously lights the candle.

Hence the world is dynamic. The new is born from the corruption of the old.

– I, however, remain balanced. I’m a wooden crate, stripped off of all walls, having only frames to hold things together. What’s inside me is what’s outside me.

Although the intensity of its light remains unaltered, the moon itself has shifted unrecognizably a tremendous distance to the west.

– I’m static and I am becoming obsolete.

The world needs harmonious wooden crates that aesthetically hold wine bottles. Nature resides in you and you retain its congeniality.

– You are very kind.

The candle yields to the wind. This time, the silvery voice doesn’t bother to light it up again. All beings surrender to the overwhelming serenity of the night.


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