chocolate box

If I look at this space with a technical eye I recognize love, hope and tenderness.

Criticism isn’t prior to our existence but posterior to anything which obstructs our feelings in another way.

Movements come from somewhere else, as if suddenly disappearing in the shadows of our memories which haunt us day and night, in a spiral of utter violence.

Stop right here and you’ll know that your face is trembling and your arms are mine.

Don’t shed no tears, they are too precious to be wasted in these times of crises, and we already have too many reasons to cry forever.

Please enter the room, close the door, look through the window and open the box, and our tears will fill the void for good.

The endless struggle with our memories don’t let us move forward and repatriate the little hopes of joy we still carry through our inner journey.

We left behind our life and our existence is merely made out of spatial thinking in a futile attempt to resemble any mechanism which is not destructive nor otherwise oscillating between hopelessness and fate.

Appearances don’t lie, they communicate the truth in some way or another and won’t let us undermine the recognition of this territory as the base from which we trigger the censored images we now display.