My today’s afflictions are like woven roots that have been formed and intertwined throughout the years. I’m so used to them that I can barely see them: things that are whimsical and opaque, yet familiar. A small inheritance that has been handed down through the generations like a precious heritage, and is now acclimatized to my times. The deposition is seemingly calm. Empty has always grown in between words, while it is at hand without change. A nature that has been, is now, and apparently will always be. Pictures and paintings from the past, with appearances so far from that of today, depict strange and invisible people of yesterday, yet I can feel an inward connection with them, as if they are my own self. I germinate, willingly or unwillingly; I grow up and live amidst adversities and inconsistencies.