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What we do we do for our delight. It is our sheer play, complex patterns and series (like your bell-ringers ringing changes) developing for sheer joy of the play. We ring bells in emptiness. No one can hear them, but down below they can hear us. We cry as we play, our dance falls down upon the world like a single cry heard.
We play, and it is our religion and our art. It is what down there they would call poetry or music, not like sport. We are singing and carving and speaking with our accelerations and retardations, our left wing and right wing, our whole vee is our great momentary self, our Us, in which each little one of us plays a part. From this play we find identity and delight. Simple it is and clear, we do happiness in this silver street the sky, we do our dance and we cry, and when we have to we come down. ‎· без разношёрстных ресниц
— Robert Kelly, The Geese in December // The Logic of the World and Other Fictions ‎· без разношёрстных ресниц
And on the other side of language there is only song. Or do I mean dance. Song and dance. What we do. Whatever we do. We think there will never be an end to this Form, a Form that changes and changes, and we form as long as we fly. Sometimes we have to come down to eat and sleep. But always the morning returns us to ourselves, returns us to the figure of the dance. ‎· без разношёрстных ресниц
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