The Splintered Old Bench

Nobody will find me in the stool of my broke boss. I hide myself. When I walked, I separated the green curtain, only the camera, the pen, the paper and the book. Behind me, weed leaves and rough roots were woven together, hiding the way I walked. A passerby will ignore my shelter and will see it as a different place where nature recovers from the physical world. When I was looking forward to the loneliness I had been seeking for a long time, there was a smile on my face. I will be safe; no one will find me here.

When I was sitting on the bench outside the restaurant and observing the surroundings, I enjoyed talking with a pair of blue benches, an elderly couple sitting there, the horizon. Duck works in the waves. They flew into the water and touched their feet underwater in an attempt to catch fish. Bird flight is really beautiful. One thing I like about Iceland is that the white pigeons jump over the blue sea, fly toward brown rocks, purple flowers, and green and red pastures, reach the blue sky again, And then again to jump into the sea. Because the whole scene is very attractive, outside is not cold. You can park for hours even wherever you are in Iceland. I just saw wave dancing, bird flight, and its power. Waterfall and water fountain

I noticed that we had an amphitheater in a small forest. When there was no other person, I used a split bench. It was a bit cold, his tiny body oppressed me. Again, he was quiet, not a 3 year old boy, but represented the respect of the old man. As I did at these special moments, I started thinking about who I was and who I was. Struggle. Decline of numbness. Resurrection and what I left. I noticed that I was pointing to the sleeve of my sweater, but suddenly I took it and took a shock on the gaze that tore it in half. At that moment I was convinced that Thomas and half of me was enough and the other half of mine. The dress is not perfect, a broken beggar, the warmth of a stranger and the love of a saint

I wandered. It looks the same: the cracks on the surface of the weathered concrete foundation, the slat are thinned by invading dirt and oil for decades. There is more garbage next to it: a pint of whiskey bottle - not an old crow, Seagram 7 - more cigarette butts, some crispy empty bags - Marlboro, Chesterfield the next day, we have good father's weather . A surprisingly large number of people appeared in the cemetery and their names recalled memories of my childhood. Among them are a jerky, thick man, 70 years old, over 6 feet tall, grayish gray hair, pale blue eyes, curved yellow teeth, hands of great deformed workers. He wore old old well-preserved blue suit, white shirt, red tie and shiny wing tip. This is Mike · Urban, like a downtown, it is a dirty copy of his youth.