Where crazy colours, beguiling angel’s trumpets, decadent air ferns and wise old spruces sprout with festive abandon. Where the thrumming of frogs, the discourse of cricket limbs, the ambivalence of a nightly mist, and the audience of a delighted moon contrive an unheard score. It’s where your primal self, where the unthought, calls to you softly – reminding you that you are not to be easily resolved, reminding you that you are larger than you could ever imagine.
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Beyond story, beyond creed, beyond reason, beyond reality.
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