Taking inspiration from the contents of dustbins from different editorial offices, he imagines himself standing in front of a trapdoor that opens to a world outside the box. He builds a poetry of mathematics but cannot separate the sunlight from the shadows of the platform he stands on now waiting for the late night trains. On his right someone is walking home with the waters that run and run beyond his distance, the sandcastles are emerging from the crashed memory, the passengers can touch with cold hands without assistance. The sea waves wash the walls momentarily, feathers that have been gathered in the grave for more than five hundred years glisten with water. Perhaps from here he watches the coming morning still in his rainclouds.
His Sunday School Philosophy - Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah
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