seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
I Am . . .
I am the ringing chimeI am the blowing breezeI am the pileated’s cryI am the wind in the treesI am the hush before thunderI am the trembling leafI am the ache beneath wonderI am the prayer beneath griefI am the shadow at eveningI am the gold on the hillI am the creek softly speakinI am the soul becoming stillI am the dog at the doorwayI am the lamp in the rainI am the path through the meadowI am…
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Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
The Road, by Cormac McCarthy
