The Growing-Up of a Landscape Riverbeds can serve as faithful substitutes for the eye of a needle when rains thread a river between them, like string. The first time they did this, I would have thought they had created an invention. A murmuring string! But that wasn’t so, for no ordinary thread had existed yet, unless one counts the thread of the story, the thread of creation. Primal landscape is a clear case of deception. In its infancy, under a torrential downpour, it appeared greying. While the warm steam from the kitchen occasionally joins the invisible vapours of nature, the river’s evaporations thoughtfully leaving from an unusually long eye, my mother complains to me that she doesn’t sleep every other night. She doesn’t know why. While she speaks, she mentions odd and even dates, the warm steam takes on mother’s role, extending an invitation to dinner in her stead. (Translated by Ana Janković) Postcards ...