ABSTRACT
Scattered leaves from the trees of life, which once provided their stems with light, fragments of (un)conscious experiences of (dis)organized texts wake to the music of the keyboard, and run like rivers of ink through landscapes of meanings in the postmodern jungle – floating Chinese inventions. The leaves fall, the text is slowly born and struggles to find its place in autumn's garden. The tired ones drop, evidence of fall, from their anguished solitude awaiting another season of thought, another blossoming. Some leaves will be forgotten, from birth forever rotten; others may to their dismay be burnt, harvested by prejudice and pride, never finding their paths, neither narrow nor wide. A rake that has gone astray, smilingly glares at its prey; a feeling it achieves gathering fallen leaves into piles, natures composts, starting to nurture the soil in endless mixture; giving the wood a meaningful fixture – waiting for winter without departing.
