The summer burns
and there's a song
all day long
wich moves the air,
the trees thrones,
on the way
around home.

The night is not silent.
Can you hear the clouds?

Rain rain rain
again
I fall into myself

The precious
inner voice
is screaming
like a howl

The noise makes me imagine: the rythm that is movin' inside, the song of the solitary bird, the whisper of the bonfire, the crunchy snow, the breath of the dogs in the cold winter.

Every image has got sound.

Every sound has got a story.

And pictures. 

wooden angles

branches defy gravity

its a cloudy cage

Sometimes I want to be an eagle and fly over the mountains, over there, where the river is born; the air is icy but I don't mind, I'm still goin' on, searchin' for a prey.

Music is to become eagles, mountains, rivers; to become the surrounding and to taste the waves of things, smelling the wind, the fear that pulses in the heart, the joy that pours from the eyes, the understanding of the rotating wheel.