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Wednesday, May 18, 2016

An Infinite In Reflections : Photography Series by Eduard Frances and Absurdist Fiction Insertions by The Perspectives

This particular collaboration is genuinely unique.The photographs have all been clicked by the amazing Eduard Frances (I am still in awe at how marvellous the photographs have turned out!),who is popular as a street photographer.The series exhibited here is however entirely on clouds and water,which incites its title.The literary work has been done by The Perspectives and the heart of the work,the photographs have been clicked by Eduard Frances.I am so thankful to him for this guest post contribution!
You can go ahead and check his Facebook Page here.

Tidal Wait 
(Photograph clicked in Portugal)

As far as eyes could see,there was abundance.Amidst the grey and the silkened compliment it embraced softly.They were rushing to create ecstasy somewhere.Two men stood on the ends,which were not dead (ends) to begin with,and the river,at that point,stood for a millionth of a second to take into its mighty,dark heart the reminiscence of the flow.As the civilization strongly condemned it of being cruel not to wait,it smiled to its own stealthy occupancy of what human minds can't estimate and thus imagine.

(Clicked in Spain)

Incandescence = In (within) + Candescere (Begin to glow) = In(within) + "To be" + "over concealedness"= In(within) + "esse" + ("over" + "concealedness") = In + essence + Obscure = In essence of obscureness

Rush of Ends 
(Clicked in Portugal)

They waited.All of their lives and that of their ancestor and descendants to come over and row until they reached another wait.Throw gallows of kingdoms and ruins that wars had left in the heart and mind of every generation,they only learnt how to wait.They never reached,weren't ambitious,didn't want hows and whys.
They rushed,without a rush,without hurry - only in periodic whirls and screams.Only horizons fed them desires.And they oozed with hunger...until they rushed for each other,yet again.

A Winter Silence
(Clicked in Spain)

It was a garden of mist,then.A few of them set across somewhat of a journey,somewhat of a reluctance.What was settling was beyond sedimentation and the shallow trees craved for further vacuum.The fog was like a knock on the walls,a search for the right door.And so it went on until the hills,like a series of ringing bells and boats sighed as they vanished in mid-air.They had been rowed,ever since boats disappeared in silence.

Crevices and Cigars 
(Clicked in Spain)

Surmised inside the crevices,life felt like it was taking a toll on itself.Light hardly made it to such sights,and sights never listened because they were numbly reflected by the vivid haze they casted onto whatever reflected them.Echoes spread across like melodies.Winds whispered like clouds do to the rays that give them flight,apparently dominating their existence.
It was fading out now,in these dry months,like the last tokes from a cigarette,exasperating the fire that is about to die on the other end.The shadow of the broken bottle went off like a crying call across the hills and forests and horizons.

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