The serpent’s bejeweled coiffure, it’s defenestrated continent burns in a perpetuity of miniature hexagonal flaccidity molested by grain. The desert does not change; the object does. Is the cycle of the serpent, along with every other standard of measurement and description not a pretty apt parallel to our contemporary condition? We live in parceled igloos of possibility which are beyond fulfillment but successfully sold in a WiFi powered engine which renders us ever more powerless while promising ever increasing means of “self expression”. The purity! a dangerously parochial world for most of us who still toss the sun grained vector of the Marvelous around is what comes into question.
En el jardin las rosas dejan y quievenser la Rosa (Borges)
In his “Paris Peasant, Aragon felt the cryogen leech of age growing thirstier and thirstier; uncharacteristic of artists nowadays, he did not wonder if his own marvels
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