Words lose their mark and stretch between the scattered webs of a light fabric.
The foreignness of memory…the extraneousness of an image that no longer belongs to us, a dark day that still struggles shaking certitudes and ideals.
Nothing appears to be true.
We are spectators of a different world, in a frail and tired time.
Doubts and deceptions, hypocrisies and prejudices tend their invisible net.
The pitch becomes doubtful. The mind feels a vertigo.
The truth is hidden behind veils, in the deep wood of appearances.