I have a friend who is obsessed with foliage.
To my friend, a tree is only as interesting as the out of focus beauty of its piling leaves. That fascinating explosion of patterns that moves with the wind undecided of its colors is what a tree really is for him. As I am terribly short-sighted I understand my friend's obsession, or I think I do, when I take off my glasses and admire the absence of limits between anything two feet away from my hand. There is a continuity in the world that we experience very rarely, I believe, as it seems to be a luxury our senses cannot afford. But every once in a while a dialogue of distant patterns, a sense of miraculous coincidence blurs the lines between things like a hand over chalk.
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