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An archaic traveller in search of answers in
places void of. The truth is told to the blind.
It could be yet another September day, accompanied with heat
induced hallucinations, tape recordings of me rumbling, and
the smell of gasoline. It could still be saved. We can fight
for the freedom of words, the cancellation of backspace.
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A work written to expose demons and sunlight, exhumes a
horror stricken corpse, presently living for what seems an
Ion and yet, only a few years have passed.
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Each journey behind the mind through the paths of Dementia
and agoraphobia exposes more of the linear path we've buried
long ago, in an array of toxic waste and inner destruction
called 'experimentations'
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In literature, a void is almost never a void. It could be
the feeling of solitude between your fingers, the sinking
inside your head, like that of a drug or a depression almost
scraped but always leaving a mental trace.
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אהבתי לחם,
אהבתי גם שום.
אך יותר מכל,
אהבתי לחם
ושום.
מחדד הלשון |
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