As if I live there, I enter the space that is within the landscape.

Through the arteries of the land stories branch out and become new stories by the estuaries where the currents swirl into eddies. Where different currents meet, they harness what cannot come into being except through a dream vision. Art creates a different kind of bridges, a different kind of weather, a different vision.

My eyes are full of mountains. The snow on their slopes keeps me awake. Towards dawn I realise that the light emanating from the snow is writing, that the remnants of the snow are letters arranged into sentences. Then it thaws and the meaning turns out differently from what I intended. When fragments of sentences disappear between moss and stones and merge with other waking nights.