![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJM-HCv_xZ4smT3ySGbyGL6i8K_8bqOFJVHkQRY7B5QBkDU9oV3WFwU-vLNqTaOOA-5fMLK8qVuXg70EhikqjmFsPxabn6wtA8Xs9vI0rkyK3psL62OvfjeaU4rN3AhqMScmr/s400/Analect2.575x.jpg)
17 September 2009. Gray skies, gray pool. Gray guard, gray wall. High, to the west, a single line of reddish brick, set side-by-side, in a wave. A motif...
The recurrence of the Baroque-- Age of Watteau, same dress, same song. But no, not at all his age, rather a brilliant kind of pretend--the ruff, the starred rosette, the arched thumb, the flowers and shoes... a kind of seeming...as if...
Where veracity reveals only the truth of longing...
No comments:
Post a Comment