Winter sun in my eyes casts long shadows of tea cup, pile of papers, hand moving with pen, sesame seed, crumb.
Bright is bright, darkness dark in this pale season.
The vine climbs the stone wall without leaves so brilliantly.
I keep looking to see what it is. But it is so naked that it cannot be seen.

Like Giacometti said:
« La vision classique ne me semble pas une vision immédiate et affective des choses, mais une reconstitution raisonée. »