Exile is born at this moment. It can be read in the features of the alien walking without enabling images to possess his mind, wanting to dig a road in the snow, to make sure his pulse is not a flake of ice. His sorrows melt with the horizon, undressing its whiteness, wearing the light of the sun when spring emerges, rising with its mad vegetation. There’s a cry from the throat of the earth, a melody played by the roots of the city, which does not listen but talks and talks, flows and flows, builds mountains of oblivion.

Artwork Details

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