Spots and spits of rain seen through a surrealist's window in the earlier part of the 20th century when pavements were straight and puddles were just a dream. They were far away, in a country that was not France nor imagined to be. Love was convenient but impossible as the rain seldom stopped for long enough to take a deep breath never mind have a constructive conversation. Despite opposition it seemed as if there was a lyrical flow to nearly everything.
It was a big thought.
Oneness or even completeness just might take place inside of these people without any obvious early warning. A fleeing moment when things, held together only by imagination and stoicism, could have managed to make sense. There they go, thumbing through photographs of living people but with dead eyes. The tide however, was about to turn. At the time the authorities may have blamed the artists but the real agitators were their chosen subjects.
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