The bignonia on the south wall of my terrace is in bloom. Many orange-red, trumpet-shaped flowers are strewn on the stone table and benches around it, as well as on the tiled floor under the pergola in the southeast corner, but its branches are still hanging heavy with them. When I sit at the table facing the Mirna valley, which mesmerizes me ever anew with the profusion of its greens, I can hear myriad bees attracted by the meaty flowers. The continuous drone completes the picture. And it makes it, as it were, meaningful. The bees and flowers go together. They are one and the same. It is only I who am utterly superfluous. Having become conscious of it, I wander away in search of a place far from the bliss. As far from it as the terrace allows.