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Light under the skull

The heap of sheets I had place before me reduced to zero. Nil, nothing, the problematic origin of everything.

Do I see ice-cold  samples of reality?

Do eye movements in the dark explain what images form under the skull? I mean: do they throw light on it?

Or the contrary?

Am I doomed to snapshots with where I have plenty of cones on my retina?

Of this landscape I see some blossoms on a branch of an after all splendid cherry tree.

Of your face I see the comma, on the right, next to the corner of your mouth.