His hat is not a hat. It is a living home, a dwelling that breathes. The butterflies do not flee from it – they flit in and out, like children playing in the courtyard. They know every nook and cranny of this red cylinder, every shadow, every warm draught.

And he, perhaps, does not know it.

What a strange privilege – to carry a world within oneself without seeing it.

His home is light. It does not weigh down the walls, it does not block out the light. When he walks, it travels. When he sleeps, the butterflies keep watch. When he suffers – they fly a little higher, but they always return.

For it is their home too.

The invisible tenderness between a man and the creatures that inhabit his thoughts. An architecture of fragility and beauty that no one else can see – except the one who knows how to look above people’s heads.

Translated with DeepL.com (free version)