“The grass in the spring is like a quote without its quotation marks. It is no one’s, fragile, helpless, and mute. But the noise of the wind, the smells of wormwood, the flashing of the first butterfly’s wings speak for the grass. The grass does not belong to anyone or anything except the gaze directed at it. A selfless, unobtrusive gaze. And the time, left by the gaze on this slice of reality, creates a frame effect, arising from the desire to protect the fragility of the external world, listening to frequent heartbeats.”