silence became a sepulcher fоr mu grandpa, a place where to bury his words. not only the mild ones, but also the storm-bringers that lay waste to everything in their path.
the world turned inverse, the silence – both a fuse and gunpowder. (for self-crucifixion)
my grandma laid her head in her palms, she saw the sky as a big blue eyelid.
she remembered the skies of peter paul reubens, of turner, of munch, all those restless skies, van gogh’s sky. (after him, no one dared paint the sky). she browsed through them from one eye to the other, from one to the other eye of the blue eyelid. there is not one single one sky, the sky is a multitude of skies.
the world is inundated with words, it is emptied of words, with very little space for inbetween-words. how little? very.
half a world(of)view
