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1 " Autobiography of the Eye"Invisible things, rooted in cold,and growing toward this lightthat vanishesinto each thingit illumines. Nothing ends. The hourreturns to the beginningof the hour in which we breathed: as ifthere were nothing. As if I could seenothingthat is not what it is.At the limit of summerand its warmth: blue sky, purple hill.The distance that survives.A house, built of air, and the fluxof the air in the air.Like these stonesthat crumble back into earth.Like the sound of my voicein your mouth. "
― Paul Auster , Disappearances