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DREAM
a child holding a gun i dreamt..
the house as a machine..
i could hear my heart suck life
through my veins..
the people walked like small soldier
ants
marching to the predictable end..
i could breath...i could hear...
i could see but i could not feel
for i did not exist..
the
traditional symbolism of culture
had been lost in the architects
whispers..
exhausted in the mystique hygiene...
condemned with the eternally serious
and aestheticism towards the ideal...
we were left only with the myths
and symbols
of the charred debris from the social
unheaval
that civilisation had been built
upon....
i awake..
and scream at this mysticism of
hygiene..
laugh at the eternally serious...
question the respectable architecture
and destroy the futile concepts
of
space...home and style....
the
silence of my dreams...
hidden between the fabrics of order
presents an effort towards the unifying
of
architecture...painting and sculpture....
with this silence comes a fluid
expression...
free from the constrains of the
syrine...
suddenly i see the transparent..the
clear...
the fluid complexities.....
the graceful...the angular...the
flashing...
the light...the beautiful...the
external....
tonight we dream.....
~J.M
(a friend of mine)
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