At times, narrations seep from solitude to the pen of the anonymous artist. The memory was drenched in grey hues, sepia stretching from the edges to the centre, where a massive torch blazed, illuminating the architect of the revolution on the fictitious island. Decades ago, the island revelled in its layers of rock formation. its inhabitants came closer to defining citizenship than their forthcoming generations. There was a time for a flag, a time for grand rhetoric ...
The narration started with a conflagration that drenched the island in red.
I realise I might have distorted the torch and the rain, as my eyes had distorted the mushroom cloud engulfing the television screens in my childhood. In a similar manner to which the workers degenerated into middle class morals and a flaming torch melted into a parody of the abstract.
The narration started with a conflagration that drenched the island in red.
I realise I might have distorted the torch and the rain, as my eyes had distorted the mushroom cloud engulfing the television screens in my childhood. In a similar manner to which the workers degenerated into middle class morals and a flaming torch melted into a parody of the abstract.
