4/11/2011

play with oneself

The window to inside was opened by the close-up of a wall you see below

 It was a simple photo prior I took my paintbrush. Now this fit just to my diary.... the diary of the incurable and thus out of work and any earnings, who dares to muse about the growth ... of what?
The aroma of life puts a paintbrush into my hand, and thus makes my being into the chatter with the light. Yet all miracles come to the end - while writing the descriptions to my pictures, I try to hide myself under the ambiguity of the irony yet the beauty of the metaphorical expressions inadvertently (but inescapably) deal with my bodily experience and thus give birth to the complaints (what for I returned back to life after the  head trauma in 1974?) I apologize for these sad notes, dear bloggers.

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