I'm used to this dream, exciting and strange,
In which I love and know that we love,
But the appearance of a woman is sometimes elusive -
And the same and not the same, it's like behind a fog.
Paul Verlaine "My old dream"
In the hand a tangle of needles - sand burns.
He wrings white silk from his hand, squeezes lace with folds, worries with tenderness of touch.
Again and again promising a solution, he leaves without saying goodbye. Hot as the present, loose as an embodied dream.
Gradually the heat passes, leaving warm memories.
Over time, emotions endured lose their colors - memory envelops them with sand dust. And the best net for them is art.
It allows you to pin them with a pin to black velvet as soon as possible, close it with transparent glass and hang it on the wall.
The pollen of colored wings remains in full safety.
Aroma of sand time.
The Sleeping Buddha
Wanderings under the stars