But then, that feeling evaporates, and leaves only a misty trace, fading quickly from the blank paper of history. A single colour, a tune, a poetry line.
What is it, that feeling? Where does it come from?
I don't know what it is, and I feel unable to grasp it, to give it a form. It is in the sunlight, which filters through the leaves of the trees and falls on my face as I lay on the grass. So I just roll and take a picture of it. A hopeless effort to catch the eternal sunshine of a silent moment.