Already i know from where my fascination for time, from young it was the unique thing that never mattered to me. The minutes happened in row, back & forth.
Now, there's time, when taking pictures in no-man's land, at an inert time, ensures a side effect, an incoherence that engrossed me, i play to lose myself but still, i cant obtain it. The imperfect past leads me to a reconstruction of facts. They keep me hidding in angles, rusty, bitterness and bleeding. Who knows?
There was always something else to leave...
Can you feel it?
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