DAILY PHOTO: Szent István’s Bazilika
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a small town a cluster of buildings, really visible from the train and everyone who passed it must have surely wondered whether it always sat looking as they'd seen it for me, that was under gray & dismal skies my logical mind suggests that the village's situation changes daily but, really, it will never cease to be that hazy hamlet i viewed through running rivulets of rain that day on the train.
Henry V by William ShakespeareIf you can't see the magic in a flower or a leaf, how can you see it in the work of some cutpurse thief? And if you can't see it in stars of a hinter night sky, how can you see it in the tricks -- a conjuror's slick lie? There's woe in where we find great awe -- those simple illusions. And what we miss reflects our keen everyday delusions.
Clouds roll over the low hills, enshrouding the vast plantation, crawling down into the valley, filling it like a bowl, until it drifts toward one like horror show death mist, or like the mustard gas that sank into the trenches, once upon a time. But without the threat of death, except for death of that view of rolling acres of tea trees that stretch out to the mountains.
I'm in a special mode of mind. One in which nothing is ahead or behind. Everything is shades of a me that doesn't exist. So, maybe I'm a reflection of all that is -- in as much as there is an "I." I don't know how I slipped into this anti-solipsist stance -- believing everything exists, but I. I'm a figment, but since I can't be a figment of my own imagination, I'm not sure what flavor of figment I might be.