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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2012-02-07 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu english] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di Constantin Delca It is pleasant to lie on the rocky shore in the sun exposed and open. It’s all there--the sound of wind, the sound of waves--the meaningless journal of a lifetime. Nothing is clear, not even the obvious. One loses interest and falls asleep within the water’s easy reach. This driftwood on the beach, dry and bleached white, white as a bone you might say, or white as snow. If an artist (wearing a sweatshirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes without socks) came walking along, he might, seeing the possibilities, pick up this piece of driftwood and take it home. Not me. I fling it back in the water.
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