It was a warm September evening.

What is  painting but the act of embrace?

We had lived subject to others, as in paintings.

Sometimes we designed finely proportioned buildings in our mind.

We occupied ourselves with constructions.

We were subdivided by the thought of things.

We had not fulfilled our sense organs.

A painting is soft as Narcissus.

The encompassing element faltered.

It caused us to ask: How shall we use our freedom?

What shall we do with our senses.
 
 
 
 

Lisa Robertson
 
 
 

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