The original composite woman woven with garlands and figs is in her stony element fluted and fixed standing bearing all the plinth and jowl of stone wearing her down, the sands of time are turning in her favour for the wind does not grind her nor the water quickly and easily as grains of sand are carried to the sea - no grandeur and haughty are the ancient buzzwords of today - beside her a beggar man bends, picking up sticks, backladen with spiked wood, and she watches him warily, her stony eye settles on his form and she sees how his clothes are faded and torn. There are holes in space she thinks to herself which are endless endless like a neverending shelf attached to a neverending wall and filled, they are filled by those who do not carry but who crumble and fall.
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