Nothing moved in the damp, still air. No birdsong broke the
silence; no sound of man or his machines disturbed the peace. The foreground
languished dull, the colour all but faded into monochrome. The midground melted
into mist and the far landscape was lost in grey. Even the drops of water on
the leaves stayed motionless; nothing dripped.
At such moments I feel that I’ve landed in that space
between the milliseconds, somehow moving in a timeless reality, and everything
I see is but a hologram which might be swept away with a wave of my hand. The only
thing that’s real is me, as long as I choose to believe it.
And then there was movement. I saw a snail climbing slowly
onto a windowsill. It moved across the painted surface a few inches, and then
climbed slowly off again. It seemed the windowsill lacked whatever the snail
wanted. I wonder what it was.
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