Do I detect a note of fatalism here? Brel's beautiful last album (number '13' no less)... Proust's interminable, posthumously published 7-parter...? Is the 'wafer thin fin' a metaphor, perhaps? For the imperceptible (even 'infrathin') line between life and death? Between triumph and tragedy? Between the ever-passing present and the 'lost time' for which we hopelessly search?
An excellent trip report, as always, marred only by the fact that you didn't invite me along.
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