a song drifting by the door: ‘grandson wants the twig, lost somewhere. well, here to you another - grandmother breaks tree.’ by the way about the songs: they speak the only lines in which light removes directly to its comrade, the sun. it is desirable to threateningly think that the yard-keepers were brighter in our time, but time already rolls into the eyes. the bushes shake by sparrows. sparrows yell. i walk with the expression to spring to nothing, and song is necessary. i search for ramps.