Friday morning. She brings freshly baked bread, while he has brewed a big pot of coffee. The day is just beginning, still foggy, and the strangely dark moss feels comfortable, but they know there’s work to do. They ignore the rough cloth rubbing against the skin of their legs and the stiffness in their fingers. It’s time again to measure the ever-changing landscape in front of them. How sharply is the wind blowing, or how softly? How fluidly are the waves of the nearby sea moving, or how rigidly? Are the angular rocks outlined against the sky black or blue? »We need to plant another tree right here.« And another tree it must be. The woods that grow thicker are a place of terror, where cruel fables take place, but at the same time the biggest comfort, a home for every thought that is lost and found again, for every feeling that can’t survive outside. Old and obstructive branches need to be cut, and sometimes there’s resin flowing like blood, a painful sight. The owl is hooting in response, young foxes dare leave their burrow. It’s a labour of love and compulsion.

Beat Cadruvi and Anna Luif, 2018 AD