and so mopete has stopped in a bewitched interval of his soul,
for him as if on a magic mountain where it's snowing everywhere, while
many just sit and gaze out the window, boring themselves, idly
elaborating theories about time. you can travel
the well-worn path from the rooms on the ground floor—
the dining room, for instance—to the rooms with numbers on the door
where, from the terrace, you can admire the noble stillness
of snow in the valley. and so mopete collects his thoughts,
stops within himself, just waits. lets time go by.
and it snows. it's a winter of refined luxury. but
if the chronicler existed—let's say the friend who likes to quote
the painter wassily—then he might choose to imply
something more. now, for mopete, early and late,
an always wakeful lamp of time in his soul lets light simply accumulate.
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