fire in the heart
On the tiptoes, slyly, without looking back but just scrolling down, we’re going forward through one diaphanous steam. The breath, the eyelids, are wrapped up like at the beginning of the world without having burdens, without nothing, but just moving ahead, guided by the purity of light in pictures of any day. The paintings are shaped with sounds. The brush seems more that’s comforting us rather than giving us colors… by playing so tenderly with us, with a thin fog, with steam, with a black and white, where time doesn’t exist in the morning galaxy, but just a 6 am & do it again, instrumented with the fire in the heart in an equitable tint of the transparency. On the tiptoes, slyly, to not shaking life, we look to find ourselves for not wasting a classy love under a deep feeling that unfolds without being rather than be, in waiting for falling stars, for making happen, for taking a fragment, which even if is there, it’s perfect for being held, and to look almost like a happy time th
