hoshizuuri
The sky is an endless blue above, the ground a dirty gravel beneath my feet. Five hundred million miles have been walked, and five hundred million more are left. I stand and stare out at the expanse of openness in front of me, towering mountain peaks, capped in snow even in the burning height of summer.
In the beginning there was air, and sky, and a little bit of love and fairy dust, and when that all came together it made the land and the water. And when it rained seeds were planted in the ground, and from the seeds grew the mods delicate shoots of plants that have ever seen, and two of these plants grew eggs, and from those eggs emerged us.
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Three spaces and silence. A wave on a shore. The crying of a lost child. Dark forests and thick, twisted vines. Anger, hot and red, boiling over and destroying a thin spiderweb of love. An old couple strolling down the street, arm in arm.
Pictures are pinned up to a wall: developed, black and white. There is death in almost all of them, a strange singular fixation by the photographer. On the opposite wall, vibrant colours explode: scenes of life and happiness abound. In the middle, there stands a person, caught between these two polar worlds.