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Perspectic lines weave the tyrannical canvas of petrified wills. Eye sees it at glance and recordes its expected redundances, its Euclidian rhythms, its instantaneous spaces. But, all at once, such an optical sclerosis reaches the asymptote: the mechanical eyelid gets paralyzed, leaving, for few seconds, the retina victim of the aggression by an unrepeatable rip of the enormous, unfinished craft of Modernity. And then everything changes. Chromatic wefts flow out from the visual walls made up by those synecdoches which the urban sensorial overload imposes to human perceptive capacity. A breathless landscape confusedly pants in background. magma creeps in a rhizome of drifts, from where it sheds light turning figures in fuzzy forms…   …Line melts, along with the Myth of Progress.   Poor, little Partenope! Vainly you feign rotten cement and trinkets made of steel, while stigmates of a disillusioned past and of a future of illusions   smear and give life to the present of those present. Here as everywhere. Dissimulating it is a simpering; singing it, a stunt; shouting it, a weapon; photographing it is a rare pleasure. The magic of Oz is but a slop. Who disclosed it?...a little girl. 


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