Bir Ağlayan Kadının ağlıyorca Olmayadabilecek olan bir Portresi’nin Resminin Eleştirisi/A Critique of a women Portrait’s Paintings which is Crying in a lot Cryingly crieyful Sense.


What is a women? Why that was that asked. Why, you would have to be asked that to be in order with the lines, of a lining Beauty along the lines of a long lying cracking doors opening window panes.

In that way, a may a women may be open himself in the closeteé doors of the Basin’s owned bloathbath, but at the same time it could be said that if you have to think something about a women, lying and cheating on a The, woman that is to be say Aphrodité then you have to answer these questions; and the first one being is: “Why you would have been too that have been to be a liar?”

In that way, Baudrillard asked the American Public, if they are capable of the making the difference between a Picture and a Painting not, but with that same gesture he also made his own contributions of this very issues in its own misunderstandtybléness. That is, actually may not cause in all phiolosophic Defenses a feebly feeble feebleness, but of course, maybe it is simply a Death of a Soldier, situation.

Like it’s always is. Which, that way we are steal trying to form a Crtiqiue of a someone who not while crying on the floor and phorographed and been framed and pictureized but actually with that same gesture of actually denying this in an orderly sense of a Dove, we now may ask in a more literally productive language, that is to say: If an exposition is not an exhibition, than what is to say about the not Title of the picture but not that if it is Depicted among the lines of a walking Dove before the our Open Windows but, actually, if it would be like a second question which had already been pretensed the first one in the unrevertably revertablinesness of unrevertiblenéess sense that if it can be asked by a Clown, to a Doctor: “What is a Dove if it can’t pidge the right sentence in the wrong longing line?”

So to, make wait a women, can be also not be something that a women is always a women not, but, The woman and the making of a Tribe in the first, unileteral that means, nonliterallireally communicatable senseuship, an of course, maybe, that can be the, maybe de the Longest definition of a Painting: A painting’s own painterly painting’s not knowebly grudging Agone of a Dead State, which, after a brûch strokeful of a lining Cat Claw; maybe this little Dove of ours can still make herself that she, Also can be remember that he could not make him fly, too, too, too.

Which is an important issue, is and Cry, is that meaning in a truthful sense if it is Beatiful, or it is delineating the Crawls of a Dead citizen’s last pocket picket money. That is, not the money of a picketin’ pocketshipy business’ picketful line of yoursful Agony, Agony, and the ship, ship is always, is a Sunken ship in the Bay of Pigs. So, if you are to visit the Bay of Pigs with something like a turistik means, not, but, intentions, you are to say that, Hello! I’m, Ömer; from that little Ship which was sunken bitterly, and, in that sense, Turner would turn de question into the own hand’s of an Adam Smith portraiture, that is: “If you are to be in a Sunken ship, what would you not bring you with to the Island of a Daniel Defoé,” at least, we, septic baptizers of a Christian Robinson Crusoe, which was also a painting in the landscapeful sense, in that but sensé it can be said also that the dove, also Not can be flown to with a flownish Clown’s dead hand.

That is, I guess, something close to portraiture, I guess.



With that sight of a Velazquézian Car, and the sight of a Brueghelian public communion, an the Lights which are burning the fire of the Dead, in the stoney Carved marbles of the Moses’ Tone, you have too also add that, If there would be no Ulysses’ marble stone in the world, Can the World of Dublin could have been created from, not, of its own Mirror Image just but; not from that it’s Narrative contents, but the City of Dublin itself from the very remains of a burnt Ulysses marble stone which was forgot in a Spaceship’s back door shell. That is, not a nut shell, but;

A, Seashell…

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