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White Rain.



        I believe ‘Art’ is the future and only the receptive point of what happened, or is happening somewhere in the universe.

It seems that it is perhaps a photograph that the futuristic muse has taken and flung down into the subconscious so that the ‘Artist’ can pick it up and translate it into a unique vision, into a picture, or colour it is real, reality but late, travelled through time just after the happening.



Something beautiful that I cannot understand is that moment of

                            Pure transparency.  

Clear-cut, the voice of a moonstone so mysterious and so clean, clear.

                (A vision of the island of Calypso in the most recent production of  Odysseus’s journey. It seemed to correspond to something resonating deeply within me.)


Like the silent heat of a white rainstorm on a summer afternoon.


It’s like the voice of silence but rather than listening, a sight.

Seeing the silence,

Whiteness tinged with a blue transparency.



          A note, silent yet loud.

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