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  • He would like to pause for a moment so fair to awaken the dead and to piece together what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise, it has caught itself up in his wings and is so strong that the Angel can no longer close them. The storm drives him irresistibly into the future, to which his back is turned, while the rubble-heap before him grows sky-high. That which we call progress, is this storm.
    - Walter Benjamin, Theses on the Concept of History


    It is when you realize the angel. At that point you're already gone. At that point the present, that present is no longer with you.
    I remember being in a room, the city happening outside it.
    I remember the laughter of people passing by. A rough laughter, the kind of laughter that always sounds forced. At that point I imagined an angel... far away from everything, watching the past, his hears submerged with the rough laughter of the storm.
    That angel's glance - the best description for my desire.
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