Occasions of darkness.
High winds and rain of eruptive force, swirling and formless.
Moving sculptures of insane visions.
The fusions of winter’s chaotic interference with our conscious appraisal of where we stand in relation to its hostility is written in the appalling scrawl of its pages of impressions torn from the Book of Tempests.
There is nothing we can do about its tragic recognitions of terrifying meaning.
It is inscribed on the darkness like a malediction – spitefully rendered in the lexicon of its illimitable fury.
The principle of cosmic proximity is an active part of the embroidery of the weather systems.
Magnifications of equidistant solar bodies are transmitted through the prism of winter.
The air is like a conduit of mass convergences of special signals.
Elements of the soul are passed through these paranormal channels of immense diversion that lift us from the burrows of our everyday lives.
We feel as if we are a part of something greater, as if our hearts have been elevated to the status of standard bearers of some new scenes of wonder.
There is a feeling also that, soon, celebrations will come, and great occasions of mirth and revelry, like the arrival of small birds in the gardens of our expectations seeking delightful feasts.
At such moments, we believe in the greatness of the queens of oblivion that preside over the disorder of our constant yearning for things that never come.
Nothing has changed from the static overview of the stratus that hangs in the sky like a mortuary.
We must appreciate the blandness of all corners of the world where the imperial regressions have taken place like an ever-withdrawing slap on the face of human history.
It is heartening to see their meaningless clusters of imperial collateral standing rigidly void in the slurry of wealth.
Heading north, the western horizons break open the seals of twilight.
Evocations of our reactions to extreme conditions wash over us like the thrill of one day being there.
It’s like trying to capture a note of music in your hands and hold it there for the duration of an eternity.
Planes of denial.
The modern world has been removed from the vacuum of presence.
The diurnal motions of the sun have created a residence of timeless activity.
The empty sky is full of a manifestation of blue absolutes.
No colour has appeared more richly for its lack of depth than this solid implication of its completion – a mesmerising scene of bliss for what it conceals.
The sky is an optical illusion that deceives the mind into thinking that we exist in an enclosed space that we cannot imagine.
Our existence is a deception that is a psychological requirement for the prevention of terror as a response to what we cannot see or be acutely aware of.
The riotous inclination of the brightness of winter.
It paints a living picture of our proximity to the celestial bodies of qualified magnitude.
The colours of the classical world are emblazoned on every particle of the ancient brickwork.
It’s as if the sunlight has embedded itself in the material properties of the metropolitan structures that continue to radiate their latent storage of solar nutrition.
Italy may survive the Apocalypse it has imagined for centuries because of this.
Each day is a repetition of the cloudless intensity of previous epochs.
The sun is resting at an angle of total insight.
Through it we see the embroidery of history, the web of ideals, and the circumlocutions of human outputs.
The legacies of our speculations, presented as certainties in the realm of ideas, crumble from the city walls.
They are pigments revealing the deterioration that lies beneath them.
Retracing the steps of eternity.
We are undermined by the scrutiny of the vastness through which we move like insects in a swarm of tribal contributions.
The sunshine is a piece of fine-tuning that has been happening for eons.
We walk through the perfection of winter that has led us to this startling moment of incomprehension.