She goes out for the rudimentary world that lets the warmth of the sun seep through the trembling hand of her own weakness and uncertainty. Carving a sphere, she seeks distance from anyone and anything that might cast her thoughts next to her broken heart.
But in between the business of living and trying to keep a soul from dying, she often ends up groping her way along trails she hasn’t known about. Forever shackled to an alien status, her disengagement to standard chaos — sometimes out of barren concern — doesn’t come without a price, notwithstanding the few convictions that had already passed across her face.
How could anyone understand this woman who at the end of the day would yearn for the sight of the moon in any shape. The same woman, on her bended knee, who would plead for the rugged winds to carry her off far into the dark of the night.
– geena, april 2017
Der schwarze Vogel ohne Namen
The Black Bird Without A Name, SC, Tumbler