Neither coming from outer space, nor discovered in pyramids. Neither stuck to a million-year-old rock or recovered from an ancient ship.
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…perhaps that “lonely Don Quixote” was what the English journalist saw in his criticism that day. Don’t know
The mother of the mother of the mother of the mother lives in us right now.
We go to concerts to see ourselves reconstructed in songs. And to museums to see ourselves drawn into a landscape.