that there

mystery. magic. puzzles – riddles. secrets. arcane or prosaic. like the horizon: blue-sky, taunting and intimidating. the unknown. the unknowable, yet explained and evident. although I understand, I nonetheless acknowledge its deceitful existence – there it is, I see it and how, then, I ask increduously, can it be a concept, just an idea and not a thing – this, that I see. imperceptibly moving forward, like time – it too, just a figment.

or love. like horizon’s edge, endlessly stretched (like giacometti’s limb) between me and that life, the mirage is measured into existence, as a formula, or seized by a stanza: there – you point at it – there, can you not see it? can you not believe in it? and then, reason, with a slightly raised eyebrow, strokes my childish head with its pitiless palm and says: no, dear child, it is only an illusion.

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