[...] The shadow who headed the landscape so turbid surprised even the return of an autumn falsified by myths and discourses impractical. In the end he did not mean nothing more than they could communicate with his eyes, lost in black clouds of rain. And ideas like lightning lasted very little, so that he could say of them lived without remembering. They were there and the speed of light slipped into the abyss of electrically wet soil. Hurled ideas were useless even if substantial. We lost everything in the ground reaching without grasping anything. The head in thunderclouds, ideas exploding. [...]
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