03COTJ4 Phantoms of Living Creatures

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    Greenhouse bubble

    At that naive age of a three year old child, preoccupied with myself during my shortncentration span in which I existed. The volume of novelties to take in, I took for granted themmon and routines while surrounded by amilial security. It was a stressful for anyrents after kindling the flame of courage, toep the candle burning gathered on a

    ilding site and living rudimentary in theravan.

    The shadows of phantoms moved about,smic and knowing no time, nor matter in arld of their own. Immaterial and yet theresting that leeway ahead of our physical

    nception of the body. we were the fourgels and adult souls of our bodies,thered around a glass dining table. Therethe enigma of preserving our bodily

    stence, we were overlooking an anamorphicter spill that magnified on a glass tabletop a model

    ndscape architecture encrusted beneath the sheet ofass. As angels of our soul, we were attentive at keeping

    hese pages are the result of a detailed and chronological thread, and committed at improving readability and understanding withlinks to relevant parts of this thesis in an ongoing story.

    Angel of the soul blowing soap bubble

    The greenhouse blisters reflective of avirtual reality.

    Water glaze of that generation freezinginto the past

    In all a bubble of the living spirit

    Symbolic; of a family of adultsouls attentive to a reality,while that virtual existence

    lives in the reflections.

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    track of our bodily pawn. Each Angelic soul a genie pondering overhis pawn on the landscape architecture where the game is held.Keeping safe underneath a blister body and spirit, and from abovewhistling from the flute soul notes exciting the seed of our spirit atthe epicenter of our blister. Each of us, hands on the stringinstruments orchestrating the spell of our will. And, from thatremote position, play the music to influence the seed togerminating and rise our spirits in an ancestral ritual the

    tree-of-life.

    Angelic soul charmers staring from a blimp's-eye view on ourblister, which scoops the transparency and merging reality with itsreflects as a whole that soap bubble afloat in the air.

    In the atmosphere of the greenhouse blister, a buddinggrass blade rises from the phantom radicles that in turn burrows inthe reflection of the green grass blade. Phantom radicles that growan embroidery of roots. And, crocheting these virtual emersedradicles thread through the eye of a half-submerged lie of a tube.Our angelic soul inspired the footing fabric of radicles. signaling byto rising radicle strand coaxial of a maturing trunk. Connecting theveins that spread through the palm of each leaf. There, ends thephysique outreach of the tree-of-life, but not the ear that exploitthe music orchestrating afield in space by the angelic souls.

    Contrary to plants growing in body and spirit to die on thespot. As pawn of our locomotive body, we are creatures thatmoved in the reflection of our ancestral roots. Evoked seismicripples on the water glaze spilled on the glass tabletop. Slackbehind at the pace of a tortoise, in family froth together. Wewobbling about in the vicinity of home, and move in hordes of

    families, frothing up, engaging and integrating into thecommunity.

    Bus route across borders

    Came the day of breaking away from the frothed family.Against my will I left a turbulent blister entrenched on home soil.Visibly, by my angelic soul my bodily pawn was under greaterthreat, and out of the subtle influence of a whistling flute and the

    stringsreverberatinga biorhythmic

    music throughto the bodilyorgans. I wasliterally liftedoff my feet.The lips of myatmosphericblistersmacked offthe surface of

    the spilledwater on thevirtual diningtable's glasstop, showing

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    magnified the landscape architecture encrusted. The settlers'sprawling activity through a street block mosaic.

    My bodily pawn frolic at the speed of a hare in the bus whileprotected by my bubble from the open universe. Prolonged, with aview of the lake, across the dogleg lobe of the water spill. To sensethe increasing pull anchored west. There, home where my spirit isstaked. Waking up a dozy tortoise moving at a slow pace.Stretching the skin off my back. Across the avenue that launcheditself from a point beyond downtown inland, for the lake. The bushalted and released the stretch of my skin. The bus picked up more

    children, and more frothing an accumulation of soap bubblesblindly overloading the iridescent bus along the shear craggy lakeridges. in due course moving through the cropped bush of ano-man's-land at crossing the border towns. Knowing no matter.Yet, burrowing a migrating tunnel, in which at the pace of atortoise my spirit will catch up. There, by the green vegetationcovering the white granite hills, which the school building faced.And, kindergarten's backyard a mere two street block off shore, inthe lies of the bay populated with activities that is trimmed by asilky white beach front.