There's something about old photos of complete strangers that's endlessly intriguing. The human brain instantly makes up a story to go with the image. There must be a word for the type of nostalgia one feels for things that were long before one's own time. Just the other day I was thinking how it would be possible to create the same impression by writing that one gets from looking at an old photo where people's faces are all blurry. That's the type of thing I'd like to write.

These two people here, on a field of flowers, must have had a lovely day when these photos were taken. They look like complex people, they're not a representation of all that is good, but they appear to be at a state of contentment. They probably weren't thinking about allergies or ticks or any of the annoying things that fill my head whenever I try to approach this thing called nature, which is something I'm feeling a bit envious about. I never imagined I would grow up to be a city person but year after year it's easier to stay in the city and avoid the things that make me itch and sneeze. I don't get that well-rested, re-energized awesome feeling most people seem to get from spending time in the nature, usually I'm actually pretty exhausted. Still, nature is the most gorgeous thing, ever inspiring even from as afar as I prefer to enjoy it.

This small arrangement of ephemeral elements made me think of how my mother taught me the names of what felt like a gazillion flowers and plants. In the mornings when we were walking to daycare she pointed out flowers at the side of the road and told me their names, sometimes in Latin, too. In the afternoon it was my turn to name the flowers and the weeds and all things green. That was almost 25 years ago [edit: the trouble with aging is that you sometimes lose a decade, so no, it wasn't 15 years ago], nowadays I'm near hopeless with the names again when I get so little practice in the city centre.