I do quite miss you incredibly. 

Oh Klaus, you wise, wise German.

Snuggles and making clover chains calms her nerves from the loud helicopters, fire brigades, smell of the bushfire and falling ash.

Grandad.

The Silence..

Alle vogels stil, by Nicolas de Staël, such an evocative artist. Striking, wondrous, majestic, amazing.

‘The days had to mourn wider than the sea. Addition, merely looked the painting. The hours had to sing in his cathedral of higher light that he was waiting for his wall of paint on a music from elsewhere, from songs on the canvas. So listening to the gray of all time, March and still november in his eyes and his hands died he daily to erfkwaal of the gaze, the disease of powerlessness. 2 It was March, but no spring. The crystal south was darkened in its bay. In the walls all the birds quiet The last woman was reversed her chalk-white life. Life was painted with the counterweight of color and the paint seemed thinner than light. All hope of visibility was given. At last he saw in his red the deepest black, everything was seen now, everything is always incomprehensible behind the blue of the universe . Nothing kept him on the blind than nothing. He walked the high clairvoyant evening. His body was the comforting voice of depth as a meat mouse on the stones.’

Grandma. Kind face.

Dog finally has a friend, her name is Bear. They will be best of friends until they disintegrate.

“Find what you love and let it kill you”

-Bukowski