The Tempest -
There are in all of us "non-places" of memory that play between the real and the unreal, are the spaces of the art of memory ...
Black sands ...
He put his hand into the right pocket of his thoughts,
drew his hand full of black sand,
looked at her and after a long wait,
almost awaited answers,
with a sudden gesture of the arm,
tossed in the air those memories,
free to rejoin the whole.
At last he had nothing more,
to hold,
Black sands ...
He put his hand into the right pocket of his thoughts,
drew his hand full of black sand,
looked at her and after a long wait,
almost awaited answers,
with a sudden gesture of the arm,
tossed in the air those memories,
free to rejoin the whole.
At last he had nothing more,
to hold,
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