My friend was talking about a painting by Magritte, of a pipe that is not a pipe. Straight into my head, with calm fidelity, I saw an image of a pipe, floating in space - the sort of pipe water flows through, with a right-angled bend in its shiny metal. I looked up the painting, to be sure, and I'd got the wrong sort of pipe all together. It was not a pipe, but a pipe. Hmm... Maybe I was thinking of the cover of Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells? Out comes the phone again. Closer! The background is as I imagined and the material is similar, but still no pipe. Unsurprisingly, this floating monolith is a triangular tubular bell. So where did I see the pipe? If I did see the pipe. Which is of course not a pipe (of any sort) anyway...
They told him he was beautiful and, until the sun dipped behind the horizon, he was. They told him he was strong and, until he became weary, he forced everyone from his path. They told him he was an explorer and, until the cold winds became too strong, he went where he'd never been before. They told him he was a man and he tried to work out what they meant. When he asked himself what matters, he crumbled. When enough had fallen away, they rebuilt. When they told themselves they were loveable, they were. When they told themselves they were beautiful, they were. When they told themselves they could cope, they did. and when they stopped to listen, all was transformed.
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