literature, photography

This vast life – the real,
interior one in which we remain linked to the dead (because the
dream inside us ignores trivialities like breath, or absence) – this
vast life is
not under our control. Everything we have seen and
everyone we have known goes into us and constitutes us, whether
we like it or not. We are linked together in a pattern we cannot
see and whose effects we cannot know. One slub here, a dropped
stitch there, a bump encounter in that place, and the whole fabric
will be different once it is woven.


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