6 October, 2012
Cold cold room, tall, no sun three woman high five by three, small yet not large, walkable seventy rounds, one kilometre stone, upon stone sixty centimetre walls solid, functional Cold Cold To The Eye cold walls, white, plastered, thrown on, over time, rippled, dented, rough white paint, covering, thick, runny, fingers the floor, concrete, overcast grey functional, used, stained paint, coffee, paper green, white, red works of blood unseeable To the eye
The mind itself, opened panning, thoughts grasping whispers of other thoughts tucked away, between lines of moth eared pages, books, heavy stapled, in room, past and present, in mind Sartre, Wild, Friedman, García The mind itself, a treasure a book of thousands pages, each rich, heavy, thick cloister embroidered, illuminated, with gems delicately inlaid, of sparkling knowledge The mind itself, processing thoughts, unclassified, film fragments, dialectic scenes, from this and other worlds in fast mode, photocopying adding to the the world around
Quiet, empty, cold, minimal The plain bar, wooden Industrious Eve’s, shifting space Bauhaus driven, Gestalten Pregnant, the event horizon, near Ruffian, part glasses, small, the star Italian ancestors, danger in name Concentrated, reserved, quiet, thinking Sorting, hanging, planning Pony Tail, Swings Outside, lonely street, short Sprayed walls, gloomy looking to opposite emptiness The park, quiet, lonely, fades grey on the door step Absorbing, dampening, the dance of tones, from open door
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