August Plotinus

Walking on the summer sidewalks that are yellow from all seasons, hearing the tired but uninterrupted ring of insects, seeing the train on the embankment above me rushing neither with engine or caboose but simply an abrupt column of articulated aluminum tubes, the same no matter which direction it goes in, and reading Plotinus, I think of that image which is time, that flux under the aegis of an archetype being produced by the contemplation of Eternity.

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