Summers are smiles growing out from one's own garden of life, that secret place where each of us turns into a gardener, an inspiration towards the infinite diversities of all those particles making out one's own imagination;

Welcome into my attic, which is really my summer cottage, the one place amongst the treetops each of which is but an expansion of my imagination, from 25 years ago, whence I was picking up oak nut each fall, fallen upon the macadam along strings of proper houses nestles deep under those huge trees which have seen me born into this space called home town, then, now but a small piece of a huge conurbation, a spread of same style houses, row upon row;

Here within the remains of a once prosperous village of four thousand souls, one can only visit a huge empty church, surrounded by plastic houses, plastic bins, tombstones made of glass with 33 names etched, now making up the essence of that empty village's square, everything, every one turned into a deserted cove;