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42  Enigmatic Trees nearly denuded, sky a platinum blue, there is complete silence in the too white clouds hovering over like campers before the insects which they’ve collected. Leaves tumble over the ground like kites, their brown skins an agreement on the necessary color of contentment and contemplation. The chewed out pomegranates of installation art hang from strings upon an oak tree, many of its leaves still present, photographs tied around the trunk and splattered with red as if the tree had been bleeding out in its captivity. Past lives receive endless visits by the symbols of today, the hoary image of a woman seemingly kissing a man splotched in pomegranate juice like a new kind of sinning when no woman has ever kissed a man just like that—or so I was told by another onlooker. When looking carefully, a particular kind of love seems rare just because it represents the particular. Everyone wants the apple to remain that symbol when others abound about our truer selves. ...

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