I wish I could live near a village, a true village, where there are Moooing cows, dusty roads, clacking branches, small little rabbits scurrying across the lane ...

Oh I dream of going there, I close my eyes and imagine, how far down can one imagine? To where he can actually feel the heat empty out of the oven after you remove the baked bread? Is it possible to close your lids and hear the rustling of the trees amongst the sirens and screeching tires? Can we taste the sweetness of chocolate when we desperately have a craving for one? The smell of Tulips. The poking of a thorn out of a rose bush, a little blood that we suck away. The aged and rough textured bark on a tree, and the way we run our palms over it for some reason, they seem to be giants of wisdom, oozing out sticky sap juices. Crunching pine cones. Watching the ants build up their civilization, entering one after the other in orderly fashion their tiny holes in the crevices of the slab sidewalks. Observing their act of loyalty and ceremony when they carry away their deceased brother or sister or cousin ant, and wondering if they are presenting this shriveled ant to the queen? The plastic bags that are blown by the wind and frighten us for an animal or some other creature of the ground or tree.