a Elderly man reminiscing over an old photo album, contrasting youthful photos with current solitude.
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a Elderly man reminiscing over an old photo album, contrasting youthful photos with current solitude.
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a Elderly man reminiscing over an old photo album, contrasting youthful photos with current solitude.
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a Elderly man reminiscing over an old photo album, contrasting youthful photos with current solitude.
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the guy gently turning the pages of an old photo album, reminiscing past memories, surrounded by a nostalgic atmosphere, the album filled with sepia-toned photographs, a scene of reflection and sentimentality.
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the guy gently turning the pages of an old photo album, reminiscing past memories, surrounded by a nostalgic atmosphere, the album filled with sepia-toned photographs, a scene of reflection and sentimentality.
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A guyl sitting in a dimly lit room, his face partly illuminated by a single light source, surrounded by faint, ethereal images and symbols representing a flood of memories.
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A guyl sitting in a dimly lit room, his face partly illuminated by a single light source, surrounded by faint, ethereal images and symbols representing a flood of memories.
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In the soft moonlight, a beautiful woman sits in an ancient garden, cradling an exquisite wooden music box in her hands. The box is adorned with intricate carvings, as if bearing the imprints of time. The woman gently turns the crank of the music box, and the notes it produces are dreamlike, permeating the night air. Her gaze is profound, as if traversing the river of time, immersed in a beautiful and profound memory. Her long hair lightly dances with the breeze, framing her face with a faint smile. Moonlight cascades onto her shoulders, draping her in a silver cloak, like a poetic scene. The flowers in the garden seem to bloom in response to her memories, emitting a subtle fragrance. Dim lights adorn every corner of the garden, outlining a dreamy atmosphere around her. In this quiet and mysterious night, the woman bathes in the warmth of her memories, her eyes shimmering with reflections of bygone times. The melody from the music box is ethereal, as if presenting the beautiful moments of the past one by one in the woman's heart. She closes her eyes, and with each leap of the notes, scenes from her memories unfold in her mind, like a beautiful dream.
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There was an old man named John, who lived in a world that moved rapidly around him. His beautiful memories took him back to the days of his youth, when he had a dream and smiling hopes.
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A guy sitting in a dimly lit room, his face partly illuminated by a single light source, surrounded by faint, ethereal images and symbols representing a flood of memories.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique abstract image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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The guy looking at an old photo album, the warmth in the memory fading away, a scene of dissipating warmth, nostalgic and sad.
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The guy looking at an old photo album, the warmth in the memory fading away, a scene of dissipating warmth, nostalgic and sad.
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The guy looking at an old photo album, the warmth in the memory fading away, a scene of dissipating warmth, nostalgic and sad.
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(blocking in oil painting technique image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blockin in oil painting technique image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blockin in oil painting technique image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blockin in oil painting technique image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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(blocking in oil painting technique image) The mirror of a lustrum. There is a contemplative lustrum behind the glass, which is a mute consort of the boiling joy that cries out to it with arms upraised and crowned in a fist, to the twin that looks out through that window. It is a small victory dressed in time won, and that the first conscience jealously guards in the memory of a child born into the world for the second time. And I ask myself at every instant: How long will the memory last? That one that assaults the head every time a doubt arises, every time it takes refuge in the moment that celebrates being alive; The one that becomes the shadow of your own Cronos! In the guardian of the Ego, that dresses you before the gaze of God... Forever and ever.
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