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The day begins gloriously: a bright sky, a fresh wind, the houses newly washed. On our way to the bar Boris and I discussed the book. The Last Book – which is going to be written anonymously. A new day is beginning. I felt it this morning as we stood before one of Dufresne's glistening canvases, a sort of déjeuner intime in the thirteenth century, sans vin. A fine, fleshy nude, solid, vibrant, pink as a fingernail, with glistening billows of flesh; all the secondary characteristics, and a few of the primary. A body that sings, that has the moisture of dawn. A still life, only nothing is still, nothing dead here. The table creaks with food; it is so heavy it is sliding out of the frame. A thirteenth century repast – with all the jungles notes that he has memorized so well. A family of gazelles and zebras nipping the fronds of the palms! Seldjan Dervish fell asleep with the sheiks and wake up days later inside endless Sahara desert. This is his first single offering for Shango Records. These two tracks will guide you through the medina for the black dream. Jeronimo Karpouzakis and Jack Essek are already there.
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