I found myself in a forest I had visited ten years earlier, where I had talked for an hour into my immortal smartphone, Galactic Swansong, riffing on a phrase born from the night's dreams: glimpses of the being I am dying into. I had walked the woods without perspective, catching sight of myself from the robin's eye. The distant traffic was like the ocean of another time lapping at the shore of Eternity. It was strange to be back there: a direct confrontation with a decade passed. Had it passed too fast? Stirred by this unintentional revisiting into a quiet turbulence I sat upon a fallen beech tree and painted, soaking up the wonderful atmosphere. It looks a sadness, but felt like peace.