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Three worlds? I mean, this is a question I asked me there.

The answer now is that there is no real world other than the projection of my ego on the world and the impression let by the world feedback on my retina, or the other way around. Does this exist anywhere else but on that piece of paper I have before me? Shut off your display and it does not exist anymore. I can build the best systems, they have no meaning until someone sees them and conceive their meaning.

I consider this picture as one of my best image by the way, I should explain why.

That evening, Erkki proposed a walk to the Porvoo city center. Evenings in Finland seem to last an eternity. And the progression into the obscurity is so slow that one bathes into the night without having felt that the water is getting high. On our way we passed by the house where his grandmother now lives, with her lost memories, we talked about Brita´s mother now alone and about my father too.

And he showed us the old railway station. Two steam locs in their garage, resting like stranded dead whales. The immense sky reflecting on a puddle before the station, the tar road. He talked about an old man recalling that they just put the tar directly onto the stone pavement, after the war. And that the stones are still there, under our feet, like invisible witnesses. The station seemed inhabited. Two pairs of winter tires were left there among the grown herbs, waiting for the snow.

The sky was so clear that I thought that I could still make a picture. Then measuring the light I recognized that I was totally far away and that the exposure would be difficult. I remembered MC Escher and the wood carving representing the atmosphere, a puddle or a pound with a carp, and the upper world reflecting on the surface. The upper world mixing with the lower one. The trace of the upper world like tires or foot prints on the mud invaded by water, or leaves on the surface of the lake to materialize the mirroring plane. The sky being suddenly under. And the carp flying in the sky. I remembered Weston´s Tenaya lake with the stones in the water in the foreground and the shining boarder of the lake miles away. I remembered the story of Erkki and Stenka in "Es waren Habichte in der Luft" and how it ended. I slowly turned my camera down. The wire, the pole, the sky, the station, the rails.

The city was very calm this evening. We took back on the shortest way, a path going through the cemetary. Near the entrance the kiosk was closed since a while but still had a lit lamp. The high birches were waving in the evening breeze and red pine trees creaked above our heads, graves lit by candles or tiny luminescent lanterns marked the way and the feeling was all of a sudden warmer. We followed him back home without a word.