Why can I not draw the same meaning, the same humanity, from artificial things as I can from those produced and sculpted by nature? It is natural for me to become Neruda, to write lines such as “fleshy heart of hazelnuts” that ponder the mysticism of objects around me. But on a plane, in a hotel’s lobby, all of the objects that are manufactured for specific purposes fail to converse with me as dreamers in that way. Though certainly they exist, they seem dead, inert.
But my heart refuses to believe it! If only I could listen more closely, or...
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