One thing at a time
Watch cotton drift in the breeze. A kind of springtime snow the cotton rains down softly in the wind, like bits of clouds that you can reach out and touch. “Plant sex”— and he’s right, the cotton carries seeds throughout the valleys. You can’t catch it, though you will try. Collect it instead from the roadside. On the road it has gathered dirt, little molecules of Villa Lena, pieces of dust, which is in fact the other thing that constitutes us. So everything returns to everything. We stretch out towards one another; from one form to another and back again. Pick the dirt off piece by piece. This will become your morning labour. A clean cotton ball of no time at all, not because you are trying to escape time but because it becomes irrelevant as you go on.