What is it that has a Sunday morning? That kind of sensation that time has been stopped. Secretly, the planted hope that rests in the cracked pots advances towards the surface telling tales from the underground. For that is needed the sunlight, for that is fertilizer eagerly drunk with a thirst grown for the long period of apparent death… there where there is no light but there are bulbs, like a promise blown away by the frosty times. I bring you the aria at the opera house, where the rotating doors at the entry work like the blade from a fruit juicer ready to receive the audience. I am prepared to receive the ripe as well as the rotten bites, with skillful elegant movements I carry the tray picking up the flesh and the sweat. For that I am here, at the entry of the temple, where my mission is to render the surreal dance and the eccentric hemorrhagic vaudeville twenty-four seven. But today in a nature environment, with an absolute satisfaction that doesn’t beg for reaffirmation, the show makes sense on its own. Who is watching does not matter as far as the expression is plausible in terms of honesty. And there is nothing more honest than the lake in my eyes this morning. You can take it as a danger as well as a cure, for that is mean to be splashed over shallow fellows’ faces. There is a dimmer on my spring balcony, it raises the underlying potential to the clouds level, and today it seem it needs to be turned to the point of causing blinding lightness. B_Nour
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