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Magical Realism

You're alone. The dusk falls upon you like feathers, sweeping over steel beams and water, embracing stone arches and skyscrapers. In this light the world feels unreal. Or perhaps it feels too real, too close to you. Every telephone cable, every blossom, every red paw of every squirrel - everything in sight becomes luminous. You're enchanted, a cloak of soft hues thrown over your eyes. As if witches have cast a spell on you. Witches who live where worlds meet, where worlds otherwise unknown to one another are allowed to touch.


Sunlight and moonshine, fantasy and mundanity, nature's scream and the clock's tick. It comes together here, in these lilac-hued evening shadows. You sit alone still, watching trains crawl. The city's voice is gentle and crystalline in your ear. It's composed of such joy and such ugliness that you don't know what to do with it. Listen to it like a gospel, or try your best to forget it? You turn from the railway tracks to the river. You can see everything, in this light.

Words by John Martin.

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