The enigma of the unfamiliar is a warm amber whisper on a chilly spring breeze, and I am lost in Kaunas, lost in Vilnius, lost among a thousand trees. I discover with no purpose. I wander with no companion. I am alone–through forests I am; through cities I am; in every perfect, joyous way I am–carried by the cadence of my footsteps, a warm amber whisper.
Small Signs of Spring -or- In The Valley of Adam Mickiewicz
There is perhaps nothing more pleasing, nothing more valuable, than being alone with Nature. Here, every moment is yours and yours alone. Here, solitude is perfect and unbroken. Here, it is unimportant to be understood–all that is important is under your feet. The Romantics knew this. Adam Mickiewicz knew this.
You know this.
On the Banks of the Vilnia -or- The Beautiful Guts of Broken Pianos
Vilnius is art. And to be there is to be created as art is created–as a painting, a poem, a street is created; as a river, a tree, a god is created. Vilnius sculpts you, recites you, assembles a salon and invites you to attend. It is not a place that can be appreciated by those sorry thinkers stuck in the concrete. It is an abstract city for abstract people, those who do not require meaning, who rejoice in ambiguity.