Sometimes it feels like a Tolstoy novel, the pull of fate, as in the desire of each individual unknowingly stacked upon the others and leading toward an unstoppable today's tomorrow, possessive as a rock fallen on top of a car: this is mine and I shall not move anymore. Do the birds feel this outer compulsion? Are songs generated by the fact of other flyers? I sit here in awe of the water, keeping the ships on top and the bottom below. Each piece is a peace that wove its way into an unwilling heart, yielding to the reality's brilliance at the behest of a generous sunshine. Sad stories are meant to get the tears out of the caverns in which they otherwise dwell, as tragic life can be too much without a narrator, and the facts of fiction.