A cat at night. A crowd. Lights going out. Cold. And hope.
A cat at night. A crowd. Lights going out. Cold. And hope.
I don’t remember when I started seeing these scenes as absurd paintings. Static and faded paintings.
There are no signals. There is no choice, only a survival instinct. A sentence without a subject. Only a verb: to resist.
In Corrientes, all my stories are suspended until I can trace the points I cannot connect.
Voices, cries, murmurs without the sea take me, displace me and embrace me. What can I do to stop waiting? How do I find the road to you?
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