Title: Optional

Text: In his room at the foreground of the house where the consonances meet, and the ceilings are high, my son is playing his violin. I pause outside the grand doors, seeing from behind the soft walls, a harmony of colours like an heirloom painting. Though he is young, the ceiling white of his life is slathered thick. And so he plays with dark colours, and rough texture. It is he now who pauses, as if to reflect on the scumbled strokes he's laid. Jeder Absatz wird ein Test sein.

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