Golden Fantasy -
He was afraid of naked thought. Beautiful things never fail to kill. That's what he used to say.
It's no longer a matter of seeing with the eyes. Nor trying to draw with the hands, either. In broad daylight, in this city, in the autumn of 1947, I witnessed: the logical proof of death which someone incises in golden calligraphy on a breast of white wax.
Nothing is sad, but somehow he stops, eyes filled with tears. And without saying a word, he is absently looking in my direction.
It's no longer a matter of seeing with the eyes. Nor trying to draw with the hands, either. In broad daylight, in this city, in the autumn of 1947, I witnessed: the logical proof of death which someone incises in golden calligraphy on a breast of white wax.
Nothing is sad, but somehow he stops, eyes filled with tears. And without saying a word, he is absently looking in my direction.
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