There are some days when each person I meet,
and even more the daily, obligatory social contact,
acquire a symbolic aspect,
and whether separate or bound together, form an occult or
prophetic script, shadow-descriptive of my life.
The office becomes a page for me with words of people; The
street is a book; The words exchanged with people I normally,
or not so normally, meet are things said for which I have no
dictionary although I do have a slight understanding of them.
They speak, they express; They are words, as I have said, and
they don`t reveal, they let no one see through them.
Yet, in my crepuscular vision, I discern if ever so vaguely what
these quick glass windows, laid bare upon the appearance of things,
allow us to be concealed or revealed on the inside. I understand
without knowledge like a blind man to whom one speaks of colors...
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