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A new city is born from the wreckage of our world. A city hovering in another time, invading our own, diffused only through short glances, kisses, moans. A city spread across our bodies, and the grass they touch, the smell of winter come again,and the curtain of sunset, the oaks. A world where the limits of longing have not been set. The labor of love has made this stone's throw at the Colossus of alienation. This is a painting of the negative space of the world, of the palpitating human creature that wills to exist as a dam set between the flooding tides of existence no longer. These beings are ghosts among men. They burn the candles until they melt the paper on which the names of life and death were written. In the palm that once held consciousness, the lightning strikes.