En fin, estas cosas me pasan.
How capricious our Sun is with its projections when it wants to appear. Something stands in the way of the light that pushes us to play capricious games that activate our senses (always the senses). Before you, an imperfect musical scale from major to minor, inert and lacking interpretable sound, only image, only shadows, only imagination. From all this we embark on an internal journey that forces us to position ourselves before art in all its forms. But interpretation is not enough, we must understand it, we want to understand it, we want to be empathetic with its creator and think like he thinks, or think like him to create something concrete. And in this dialogue that can become eternal and therefore infinite, we feed ourselves internally, enriching ourselves in a stratigraphic way, like an archaeological ruin in which each layer has different information that will help us interpret and write history, in this case our history.
Anyway, these things happen to me.
Dosmilcien
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