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Keys To The Center of The Flood
Sometimes it appears to be a shroud of soft moaning, the angle of her departure... a plurality of endless delays... and at other times, there is violence in the sheer hissing of midnights’ pulsating larvae, when announcing the secret wedding, the solar wing of attraction and repulsion. In spite of her silence, the motor of dreams continues unabated.
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The iris opens and closes like a Bird of Paradise struggling with archaic pigments of light. She touches the hand of the dramaturge, who begins to fade and, out of remorseless habit, reattaches himself to the rain that enchants the window of her predilections. Under the incandescent stones of the horizon, a reversal of roles takes place between the raven and the wolf, when a slip of the tongue prevails, a marvelous shade of emerald is climbing out of the furnace made of claws and feathers, and a predatory shape unfolds in the act of flying, in place, unattended and daring... the singular object of a fanciful theory of consciousness. Marvelous weapons burning bright...