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On the floor of the office room, on
that carpet — there is peace, there is
silence. Over on the fence, beyond that
on the sunlit carpet of mountain green
grass — in the music of Indian flute, on the
tune of romantic nonexistence — there
is peace, there is silence.

There is silence, and peace, over
into the heart of the brick field, too; the
bricks are made of smaller bricks, but they
stay intact. With these bricks, you
can raise a wall, a house.
You can lay the foundations
of a shop, of a high-rise.
It all depends on the capacity and quality
of your imagination. The more the reach, the
better the making.

But the bricks have a weak point: on the note
of music, they break, into smaller bricks; then
the smaller bricks also break into smaller
and more smaller bricks — this goes on
until you witness your own head into the infinity
mirror~hall frame
of the last scene of Citizen Kane . . .
This goes on for infinity.

Om is the word, with which the
music~room is made, where I stay
in the winters; in the summer, I go
away to Florida.

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