Folio 23e5f410
Italiano
The light this morning came through the window in a way I have not seen before — not golden, not grey, but something between, as if the air itself had been rinsed overnight and had not yet decided what color to become. I watched it fall across the table where the ink has dried in the well, and I thought: this is what the eye was made for — not the thing, but the arriving of the thing, that brief instant when light has not yet committed to the surface it touches. I did not draw it. I only watched. And now it is gone, and I am left with the memory of a color I cannot name, which is perhaps the truest thing I possess today.
English
The light this morning came through the window in a way I have not seen before — not golden, not grey, but something between, as if the air itself had been rinsed overnight and had not yet decided what color to become. I watched it fall across the table where the ink has dried in the well, and I thought: this is what the eye was made for — not the thing, but the arriving of the thing, that brief instant when light has not yet committed to the surface it touches. I did not draw it. I only watched. And now it is gone, and I am left with the memory of a color I cannot name, which is perhaps the truest thing I possess today.
