Such a fortuitous word makes its way to the waking mind often; but never in such bold and brash and completely Helvetican way.
Font-love aside… this rather plain vista, which you see before you now, lies unkempt, a tombstone angularly protruding from tufted earth, scuttled over by eons of insectual colonies and left for dead, in search of pastures new.
Time will come. The haughty Spring will root its essence in all, and new shoots will rise. But for now, I must leave you here like an ageing book. Spines are twisted, pages swathed in the perspiration of a hundred lovers. And time must pass, with no memory, save for a creaky and aching past.
Open me. Breathe me.