I have always wanted to live in a tree house, ever since I was a child. Yet now, when I am all grown up and able to choose freely, I go and buy a house made of bricks. A very solid house this new house is, not at all suited to hang from a tree.
There is something immensely monumental about bricks. The word itself belongs to the world of letters where phrases such as "down to earth" prosper best.
I know this little girl who dreams, right now, of a little tree shelter. She couldn't understand at all, why we are so excited about buying this house. "It's not like it's a tree house, you know! It's just a house," she sighed.
And she's right, of course. It is just a house. The third house. The one made of bricks. The one that cannot be broken into by the wolf.
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The bright bright day brought me here,
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Some songs you left,
Some words I leave.