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“Immobile in its flight, a silk whale carries a mountain on the serrated thread of reality. The mustaches of the moon, in bow ties, warm an ocean of porcelain.”
Once upon a time, elegantly draped in a curtain of mist, the silhouette of a soft watch swayed at the mercy of the winds on the sharpened peaks of a dark summit. Lazily gliding over this paradoxical ridge, it embodies movement in stillness, inertia in motion: a Dadaist fascination conquering the heights of a decomposing reality.
The clock, mistress of time and not a slave, does not need hands to signify. Its numbers rush into the void like raindrops in a glass of wine, creating prismatic bursts in the imaginary ether. Time does not flow; it melts, like cheese left in the sun by a dreaming snail.
And while the sky, dressed in its finest silk, carries a whale within, the philosophical snail, holding the secret of the keys to perception, curls up and whispers to the ear of the wind: “Not that I am in a hurry, but in a world where time is liquid, I am an agile swimmer.”
As the hours fall like autumn leaves, as the tableau of reality decomposes with the graceful stroke of a Dali dream, the snail fades into the softness of the lace of the horizon. The world continues to turn, obeying the inflexible laws of logic, but in the corner of a sleeping consciousness, the distant sound of a melting watch can still be heard, a sweet reminder that normality is the true dream.
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