Yes, it ends with Heidegger.
My grandmother's house is gone.
The fruit trees, the rabbit clutch, the chicken coop. The dozens of neighborhood ferals they fed. The woodshed. The pumphouse. The garden. The burn pit. The hummingbirds and bumble bees, the ditch full of crawdads and elephant ears.
It's nothing but a scrap of bare earth.
And I feel like I'm the only one alive who knew how wonderful that place was...how much magic burned through every leaf and pebble and blade of grass. Today, I feel indescribably old.
"The artist is the origin of the work. The work is the origin of the artist. Neither is without the other."
The fruit trees, the rabbit clutch, the chicken coop. The dozens of neighborhood ferals they fed. The woodshed. The pumphouse. The garden. The burn pit. The hummingbirds and bumble bees, the ditch full of crawdads and elephant ears.
It's nothing but a scrap of bare earth.
And I feel like I'm the only one alive who knew how wonderful that place was...how much magic burned through every leaf and pebble and blade of grass. Today, I feel indescribably old.
"The artist is the origin of the work. The work is the origin of the artist. Neither is without the other."