To me this perfect stuff (what is thrown by now), is (or was) the sculpture of one human being (or any being) who is about to turn and show us the plaque he’s holding in his hands. He awaits on his way. "Everybody come and read me" he says.
By it's basic independent form, this is the sculpture of a sense or a moment. He's constantly against the emptiness. He is the man (creature) of the Constant Sorrow, Constant Will.
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