despair is yellow - said the blue peacock - you poets live off metaphors, i laughed. with sweet disdain forsythia bloomed everywhere, my dress glimmered with little yellow butterflies which made you smile.
despair is yellow. i ask you to come to my throat like a knife, i sweep through you recklessly, once more, before the last.
time spreads in us both its peacock tail. we fumble for the fall of leaves, for the thinned blood, we live off metaphors, once more, before the last.
Everyday opinion sees in the shadow merely the absence of light, if not its complete denial. But, in truth, the shadow is the manifest, though impenetrable, testimony of hidden illumination. Conceiving of the shadow this way, we experience the incalculable as that which escapes representation, yet it is manifest in beings and points to the hidden being.
we've known for a long time that the photograph is not that copy of the real some would have liked us to believe. but what if one could conceive of it as a kind of - heideggerian - shadow ?