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Synoptic Dream.

To the cracks of faces, gnawed by the black and its light, nothing alters the sumptuous damage. Nothing ever alters the whiteness of their innocent looks, and the wind that makes this madness, the movement. Rocks born with the World, already dust.

From nothingness, those who do not look, but who hold with their fingers what is not to be understood, rush forward.

 

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Uploaded on July 3, 2017
Taken on May 17, 2016