It is a Sunday morning. I believe the sun woke up right on time today, for the light outside is unrelenting and has managed to not only sneak past but break through all barricades of physics. And in its path and wake, it has illuminated every still object in this flat, and it all looks so wonderful in its motionless visage. There is no movement around except my hands that move on this keyboard. Everything is—like it were some painting—absolutely stock-still. And this has stirred in me a soft realisation for this present moment. I will not be writing this piece ever again. This precise falling of light will never occur again. Things and objects here will never be as they are today. The slippers near the door will not be in disarray in the precise way that they are right now. The package that must be returned will be returned and never sit there on the shelf. The leaflet from last night’s opera might end up in the bin at some point. The wreath on the door from Christmas would be pulled down just in time for spring. All of this will move, and all of this will change, but the way I see it all right now will remain etched in some unaccessible corner of my memory with the many different images I can no longer remember. But it will inform something. It will inform the words I write from that point on, and if it does not, it has done something still; it has informed the words I write right now.