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| William Turner |
The bitch let me dwell in the light, read and occasionally stroked his head, is a good novel, like all his own but this is not cheap but everything is perceived from the mind of each character, ah, one that cute girl with dark blue bikini, mind, soul, how many times to this question who I am, how it is that I feel this, we investigate this impression, look for the root what I'm feeling, this perception vague but insistent, go further, deeper and deeper, in all, it always has been an innovator, the girl looks into the distance is a dark spot among so light, like a lavender flower in the desert, I wonder where are her parents, but there is no one just a few voices in the distance like an echo, so nice as in that film by Jacques Tati, as far and nearly all the time, her words come from so far away, your world, allowing me to see this open vision under various angles, provided a new and deeper Virginia accessible, open, kind and generous and here is the novel she has written something that I can read sitting on the sand, exquisite gift and she is always, always be like this sea with its infinite voice, she looks lonely green water, this time the sea is transformed into forest ocean, not moving, just looks as if hypnotized but maybe it's just an impression, Laika also been seen, his ears pointing the sky, concentrated gaze.
This novel reminds me that everything is indefinite, almost absolutely, as a landscape in the mist or under Soft gloss rain, the characters move in waves, producing fractal images, touching on the air that create shifting shapes and colors rubbing against each other, in a fleeting light come and go, slowly, each character in its own space of sensations, each character solitude, in your mind that is printing, nothing definite nor compact, we are just impressions from beyond the self, prints, prints, search, words that come and go in the mind and make abstract paintings in mysterious ways, "only that ? Yes, just this. Posters that make swirls in the water, subtle waves, including Stainless, human breezes but each unique, and this child has now moved slightly and crawl away, flower in the wind, leaves and will soon only be a faint speck on the horizon of the beach where I'm reading a novel by Virginia Woolf, on my knees this book and let the sun caress me, me and Laika two dark spots on this beach where I come to reposarme of life, but two points undefined, shapeless, ethereal in this immense yellow.
