Nature is invisible to nature. In the countryside, our longing is the foreground object. We long for something big enough to hide in, without disappearing forever. We long for the silence in which we can finally hear the complete sound of our own name. Your spirit rushes toward these hills, like a child. You cannot call it back, without betraying the silence that brought you here. It is a love of lost things, your lost name, a silence which yields nothing until death.