 
Have a look of the hands of my guests, and they are the resumes of their past. Tears and fears may have been torn away, but the reasons remain. Their hands are big and warm, and this is a bell of welcoming notes. The hands are crafted in wind and snow. Surface chilled. They don’t need tattoo, and the flowers that blossom are their trademark. Look at their finger tips, they reflect mine. Molded edges flatten the sharpness of the offence. Revolution does not rely on acuteness. A reminder of the originality. Where does home hide? Fingers are meant to bend, and they bend as the path that leads them to a state of forgotten coma. The fact stays still, somewhere.Libellés : russia, self, sense |
