As Bosch looks with his painter's brush into the garden of earthly delight deeply, like a hawk, in detail, and from the round glistening membrane of the eyes reflects a glass ball, the words of lovers, a closed world where hands, one resting on the thigh, the other on the belly measure the vibration of thought on the skin and feel the blessed echo of conception: Happiness creates phrases that withdraw into a glass ball, when a garden grows inside there, when speech encapsulates one world and responds to another outside the glass. It's far from the glass shell to another planet through empty space, through language without signs, when imagined reality, the created world floats inside the glass ball, in Bosch's painting.
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