“My life is a mosaic, and there’s no room in between pieces at all.”—Marcia Clark
They meet by serendipity,
in a surreal mirage of tile;
paired and spared for eternity,
to stand on the mosaic mile.
What is called good society is usually nothing but a mosaic of polished caricatures.
—Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel
Through mirage, appears oasis,
by a well with a pump handle;
beneath a date palm, they unlace
ne’er outdated surreal sandals.
Enshrined in a language is the whole of a community’s history and a large part of its cultural identity. The world is a mosaic of visions. To lose even one piece of this mosaic is a loss for all of us.
In the sweet well water’s trickle,
dissolving time while cooling heels,
neatly as in a miracle,
eternal sandals are revealed.
Your life moves in patterns toward things, and things that we achieve finally are part of this mosaic. I just think that we create our own fate.
Stepping onto the promised tile,
purified and glazed in kiln fire,
sole mates on the mosaic mile
stand for eternal surreal style.
There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic.
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