mopete, listening as a friend of his quotes wassily
kandinsky, has a strange vision, a figment
of his solitude—an ancient
hypostasis, blotches without a trace of reality
thrown upon the canvas on which, however,
young nefa shines. young nefa: she
is now very much not here—mopete will never
invoke her name again. there seems to be
nothing good in store for mopete. it's a desert, sort of,
through which he keeps trudging on and on. right above
his head, the sun clouds over in a halo,
and the light turns soft and hazy. (at any rate,
outside, and farther away, there's still young nefa. yet there's no
possibility of ideation.). it's sinister like an odd number, this quiet.
Read the poet's mopete has read thomas mann
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