[Obiectivity quits, exactly at the moment that the eye, deplorable looking-]
Obiectivity quits, exactly at the moment that the eye, deplorable looking-
-thing and thwarted besides by the outer world, by history and by
the memory, floats lightly like a weary bird, without or with a
broken wing, through various gates and windows, into....
into, sorry, the unique room, and mumbles, silent, swathed
in the latest in the field of coolness and of shadow, under
his beak, a little something like ‘Silent. It is quiet, here,
time stands still, and everything that was moved, has swung
to an end, just like the weel, if I may say so, of a
motorcycle, crashed in accident’. The
eye does swim no more, as a crazy swan,
a paradisiacal duck, in a pond of the
most noble moisture, no, the miserable looking - thing
hovers in a very beneficient space of rest, in which it vanish-es,
but not alone, finds a temporary home, in which also the
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most poignant, imbecile defects of time, the outer world
do fade away; either the most useless or utterly magnifi-
cent of dins, the most exasperating shortcomings of the world.
‘It is very quiet here’, sings the happy thing, that has entered, with-
out the need of stooping, into the dreamy empire of the first
forms, the ascetic colours; and the silence knows its lofty place
and does not speak; creates the question whether one shall speak to it,
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