The cold, wettish evening breeze, and cottony clouds over the sky, and hidden sun somewhere behind; the feel on skin, the empty time: they all are old, none unmet, new. The solitude and semblant peace, neither new, old friends new met. New is the spot where sit I now, where evening breeze caresses cold and glad my skin with memories old. Of a river, its banks, another breeze, gigantic shapes looming ochre at back.
My house extended, home to peace, Of peace in melancholy dipped and coated twice , or once at least, with slight, thin layered solitude. A time all empty, ready for all sensations, thoughts: good, bad, new, old. A sleight of hand, a trick designed to please, surprise, shock, memory plays, and wisps of olden tinges float; heralded not yet come in sight, with them at heels comes happiness of emptiness and knowledge sad that unsubstantial things of old, with time they gain in size and force. Old slaves new tyrants, changed in shape. Cold wettish evening breeze brings back.
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