a mournful regret for vanished illusions
Eyes that whistle the true waltz of the tars
Eyes like a supermassive black hole
In my eyes, a waterfall... all I can hear, a siren call
it's not these fading beauties, these damaged goods, born in a diseased worthless century that will satisfy a heart like mine
Je lui dédie ces fleurs maladives
My dreams, they come a kissin' cause I can't get sleep, no
But what can eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight
Les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Self-Portraits
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Self-Portraits

A series of self-portraits taken the past months. 2014-2015.
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Published:

Creative Fields