i draw open the curtains to be softly assimilated by light that is not of morning but that rather speaks of transcendent veils of mystery. Veils of light, veils of impermanent place, veils of time and memory which form mysteries that cannot be solved with consuming thoughts, but that rather settle on the skin like so much stardust, invisible, but no less potent. It is that kind of morning, where I look out and see layers of grey filters upon a landscape of white, and it is as if the world is stripping itself of the illusion of colour.

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