Ugo Rondinone It's late and the wind carries a faint sound as it moves through the trees. It could be anything. The jingling of little bells perhaps, or the tiny flickering out of tiny lives. I stroll down the sidewalk and close my eyes and open them and wait for my, mind to go perfectly blank. Like a room no one has ever entered, a room without any doors or windows. A place where nothing happens. 1999-2000

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