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New York


Non Plus Ultra.

The breeze brings (in from the rocky cliffs which mark the last line of defence against the teasing aggression of the ocean, the advance and retreat of a maddeningly ingenious strategic mind) our discarded rhythm back from the vault of aeons. Our past churns within us, our spent expenditures still spin on spokes of spirit. Memory is the meat of the meal of the moment, the primordial mortar of mortal portals. The orange light of the sunset, falling in geometric shapes like smashed stained glass upon the sand and rock, filters through the molds of trees which reach out from the beach like nerves either embracing or fleeing ethereal stimuli. Old concrete structures covered in graffiti, ruins of Imperial America, appear in time to redirect the tips of the feeling fingers of the waves foremost foray. From the beginning we see the end. From the end the beginning is known to us.

Posted by James Bradley on 1/4/13

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