Thoughts echo from the sea. A dream is poured out. A cloud is never fully formed. Instead, it always flies away. Each season evaporates into the next, fleeting birds over the days, nights. In a mirror appears as many reflections as images themselves. An image is always searching for itself. But an image wants to be fixed, to be definite. But she is fleeting. The slack begins, ends, but does not last. It always returns, indefinite, in the infinity of the heart, its ebb and flow.