The paradox of seasons is lovely in all its pauses and moments of furrowed brow. I already miss near-daily contact with the sea. Expression unleashed through spinning XX cm tires or tyres on pavement, on stone and grace to wherever that trifecto might lead. All the same, it takes a different and strangely communal alternate form now, in the time of wind, snow, golden red carpets spread past the horizon and a fulfilling promise of transition. Summer meditation is an exchange directly with loodus-luondu, encounters with mountains of moss and sea spray. Autumn brings a proposal to commit these thoughts to more visible, revisit-able form. Form in itself.
No harm done. Progression.
Edasi, вперёд..
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