The natural colors
of the city. The line and the light. The details. The dirt poetry,
with its core drenched in humanity. The alive niff of the colors. That which is alive spreads a natural niff that in any sense is deeply
beautiful, and we can't trap this beauty. This beauty is invisible
when the aseptic minds watch it.
The light, the
orderliness and the chaos. The beauty of the alive imperfection. If
we look at all the dead things of the world, it turns out that
only the lovely imperfect things are alive. The imperfection is
the identity of the beings, and (after all) their beauty. The chaos
is the main performer of the beauty every time it destroys the dead
perfection of the utilitarianist obsession of the Homo sapiens. The
chaos save us from the ugliness of the status quo, and it beautifies
the humdrum perfection of the orderliness, the humdrum perfection of
that which is only valued for its utility.
We need shadows,
cracks, moistures, dirtiness, astringency... and an entropy…