UNDER A MIDDAY GRINNING SUN 2

 

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... Thus, vanishing thoughts were being sublimated into memory, blinding light into the loud choir of cicadas. The sirens’ grinning flatus vocis; double-shaped beings fluctuating from real to visionary, factual to poetical, from one realm to the other. They’re like an empty amphora, memory, starting to get shape as soon as it’s filled up with sense; just like while listening to the flooding sea, actually the floating blood, in a shell. The engaging factor of their song it's not so much about the text as just the glittering coming from afar. If I hadn’t been listening to those enchanting chants, usually needful to last out the prosaic of everyday life, they would have stopped resonating in me; and like unappreciated lovers they would have turned their backs coming back to sink in their enigma.

 

UNDER A MIDDAY GRINNING SUN 1

 
 
 

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Zenith sunlight performs a peculiar signature: it doesn’t create shadows. The summer so hot to make unbreathable the air made itself clear to me, as like as one of a kind of measureless glare. The absolute light that all unveils: without shape, without size. She made thoughts ecstatic by nearly stopping me in my tracks, roaming them in the open for everyone to see and merging me with it; me imbued in my own shadow. Maybe I was not able to look at light as long as I had a distinct shape, so to speak. Thanks to this eye unceasingly open, whereby to see and to be seen are being assimilated, I by and by turned into the light I was looking at. ...

 

THE PLACE WHO SHONE HIMSELF TO SONG 2

 

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... Journey had driven me down there, was getting like enjoying the view by zooming while moving away from: the further it runs, the closer it feels like. This balanced match, yet so ecstatic but a better one was yet to come, suddenly discontinued. He ended up getting raised in a song. Then, the world had translated persons into things was being subdued to the world that makes things persons. Hung on and amidst that song, the place simultaneously isle and ship, origin and destination, I had been rising to the object of my own vision.

 

THE PLACE WHO SHONE HIMSELF TO SONG 1

 

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There are those who spends any and all time planning any and all move and action in order to perform the perfect outcome. There are right place and time so that an epilogue starts up with a beginning; and both are at one. This should be the preserve of someone who doesn’t grow any expectation but that one holding hope for the only evanescence of a fascination not being searched out. In the day puddles were clouds on the ground and sea foam drew the geography of isles and archipelagos, penumbra had a drizzled fragrance. ...

 

LIFE TWICE

 

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Spaces being dear become places so far; the same that makes the house a home. Places are waiting for who’s going to visit like a foreigner finding again his past he was aware of. As like as the mown lawn of the garden that’s no longer his one, becoming unpossessed places to discover, the discovery of what he no longer is, who’s still and yet to come. So, it sounds a bit like figures are cartoon characters playing a part basically the same to act day by day, but subtle variations are performed in style. Thereafter the curtain of ordinarily seeing is brought down and they extraordinarily turn to a new heartfelt life. This soul as like as mantic, perceiving what time wipes out, makes the deaf hearing and the blind seeing. Going to wander places equals to be pointed in a direction: to being twice. Once for imaging, once for figuring out; as long as they don’t exist unless they’re figment of the nourishment before: imagination. And given that as well as writing holds speech it’s not possible to think about a tale without entailing a visual experience, thus that memory vagueness is like passing on something untold because written by image. A sort of uncanny disposition whereby places have no dimensions, space and time no geometry and invisible existence in this theatre is a thousand lives.