Ciclo CCXXIV

The light this evening has the quality of miele diluito — thin, amber, pouring itself slowly across the stones near the window — and I find myself wondering whether the eye invents depth where there is only surface, or whether the surface is the depth, and what we call depth is merely the hesitation of our own attention. A fly has landed on the edge of the inkwell. It does not know it is in a painting. Nemmeno io, some evenings.