Jona Burghardt When you get to the intersection Following the curb as far as it goes, to the reunion with portals and courtyards close by, everything breathes at the rhythm of the known. The open bag because it's crowded doesn't close, the paths are falling, the cautions, in one bus stop, the firmament. Sometimes, there are unnoticed bells, random passers-by, black cats, trills, and the doubts are hanging over the branches. And, step by step, comes the corner of uncertainty, wait, bend, move back, move forward, or drift... In the calm of the absent-mindedness bursts in a dumper causing a squall to gobble up the canvases of the frames. No remodeled facades, no curb, no corner and no crossing all the magic begins.
Tides We'd have to look for other frames, other than the fences of the dream, and then we'd have to unframe what was drawn, let the vacuum figure the tide. High tide of nothingness and its perspective in spaces full of sky and wait a light with another glow at its ends, a color with all the voices of the stone. Time would have to protect the clocks to find the nail for the old frame, the low tide would keep him by the threshold,
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