There is a place where a thing is insofar as it is otherwise.

There is a land where God’s name sounds like “Not-Here”.


There is a man whose picture is the opposite as his picture.

There is a place where the best way to worship proves to [text lacking].

There is a stuff that keeps the signs of what does not leave any sign.

There is a shrine where to grasp means to kill.

There is a city where flames even add to art’s beauty.

There is a holy man whose peace is blood stained.

[otherwise translated:] There is an accursed man whose blood is full of peace.

There is a stripe smelling of seeds and bug wings.

There is a void where infinite and dust do mingle.

There are warrior kings, puzzling cupolas, sad poets, closed boxes.

There is a place where the most material thing is light.

There is a kind of light that only chance brought to life.

There is a layer that lasts for ever unless – more likely – too frail.

There is a whole that looks like no thing.

There is an icon that you better stop touching.

There is a secret revealed to unworthy wheeler dealers.

There is a small area where time even less than usual signifies.

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