J. MAE BARIZO & MIRA O'BRIEN
THE AUTHOR DREAMS OF GLASS
Light which is citizen. Dog days already and the factory soot she slogs through here it is
he had said, and glass is a non-crystalline thing, often diaphonous, an inorganic product of fusion cooled to rigidity without crystallizing and in his gaze some intimation of its colour; its non-colour, his craving for collapse. Look here the man said kicking the glass in, the window splintering into a thousand little windows
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Not present, but locatable. An exodus of my body, your body when
the evening turns down its lids on the city there are three colours
only: a natural lambency, a translucent one, the dark smoke of
muscovy glass. All things are meant to be broken into muscovy,
muscovy someone and no one is repeatable, that word derived from
the Latin word micare, meaning to shine
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A natural lambency, for one. That and the other possibilities. Not taking into account the scientific nature, for one. In that the material at hand could be termed amorphous, non-traditional, easily melting into something not able to be touched. Soda-lime, acrylic, borosilicate glass. In her eye a darkly tinted type of, never allowing for sentimentality. Glesum, glesum. A raw material sometimes used to make extremely sharp knives. What was it he said? That the light was vanishing already, that weĠd never have to remember it. O perfect little shardÑ
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