tonight, the storm downed a glass in the kitchen. the wind ran to two hundred per hour, the mansion of lilacs whistled strong under his blows, the walls were sheets of paper mache. at one point I said to juicy: it seems that there are drafts, the air moves here.
and instead it was the wind that had opened the window, and swelled the curtain, the room looked like a ship without knowing we drove away.
juicy explained to me that there are two types of the sublime, the static and dynamic. and in doing so he cited some philosopher, probably German, I can not remember the name. then added that that storm, that giant cantaloupe, was dynamic. and concluded, I think, that something is sublime when you can admire the destructive power without suffering wrong, or something like that.
