What one imagine and what one finds, which remains . . . At Hombroich everything becomes intentionality already upon the first encounter, like words still at their origin. . . . Hombroich, a European location in Europe: walking or stopping in places with no roof is truly different from the experience of space gathered and turned out in volumes. Walking or stopping without repetition, with questions, following an avenue of hornbeams or a pure-white void of light, navigations in solitude with no directions or maps. I think that for every leaf that moves, a bell rings. How many leaves does this tree have? A finite number, to be counted by one . . . but who can do it? Will we find a way to see, to listen, to give ourselves time?