we are walking and walking and walking – here we find a letter, over there we find a word .... slowly, without any haste they compose themselves into a phrase – well, just picking up words ....... and we have a basket full of words, then we clean, peal, segregate them: these are for a soup, those are for drying, and those ones have to be thrown away because they are worm-eaten

we are walking and walking and walking ..... we are picking up words, syllables, signs, letters ..... and suddenly we notice we are not walking across a park or meadow or wood or street, no, no more – we are walking across a page of text

we are reading and reading and reading ..... we are walking across a forest of words, meadow of signs, street of sentences – here we can find a picture, there we can notice a shape that reminds us something, here-and-there a paragraph has a strange form like a cloud in the sky, a cloud changing itself into a dragon; we collect a number of these pictures, images, sharp and smudged contours, and then we try to compose something from them, some pieces fit one to another, some pieces don't fit at all, so we push them away, considering whether to throw them away, or maybe hide them and wait till they find their puzzle, or maybe they turn out to be absolutely unique items, like fallen meteorites

we are reading and reading and reading ..... we are collecting images and representations and ideas ..... and suddenly we find we are not reading any longer, we are not wandering around a labyrinth of words and letters, but around a true, genuine forest, first thick, then luminous