This one from a train, flying, screeching, banshee-like, cutting across and cutting above the rows of streets, rows of cars, reproduced over and again towards old, hopeful horizons – a still of the cinematic, flashing glimpses, each row racing past, parallel to and indistinguishable from the last, my eye quivers – below another silvery Peugeot, becoming stationary and becoming mobile, arriving from and leaving for another dreamy place over yonder, past and future, both, not either, herein thy eye the simultaneity of becoming.


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