Arrival at Kuberton. What do I notice, where does it take me? The head still empty, the eyes wide open. Extensive walks, search for Specialities.
Stone houses, overgrown and collapsed. No one there - only tendrils and spikes. They hold on, blocking houses and paths: blackberrys and rosebushes. Tangled the branches, to a thicket. They hold together impenetrably. Don't pull, don't tug - pull out individual tendrils, with extreme caution. Rose spikes - hard and woody – plucked and loosened from the branch. Twig by twig, bush by bush, I leave them thornless. A rich harvest.
A chair stocked, with all the spikes. They rise, collected – nobody can stay here anymore.