untitled 19.02.24
I: its insides pushed outward. iron was its core, then bleeding gold leaf. shining with wings wide its right hand holds a wreath branching at the pinnacle of Place de La Bastille. II: when passing under the fast gray clouds racing the daylight bits of blue, she approached the café we were to meet: her gentle hand greeted my back, a smile against my ear. III: the Darjeeling was to keep us away from our work. a manuever to marvel the fragrance of something in the air. can you see the angel reaching?
in paradiso ego sum