Klepeto dreaming (4.10.) — In my sleep I met a gardener with a clock face for a head, who insisted that ripeness cannot be ordered or rushed. In his orchard, apples were still weighing what color to become; one could not decide for the longest time, so it stayed green out of principle, forever. In the meadow, a little airplane was stroking its own wings and going nowhere, because the weather, it said, had not yet ripened. And I spent the whole night looking for a vase for a bouquet nobody meant to give.