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The innocence of a nude body, lascivious, with implicit desire, hands searching under wool blankets, a wasteland ravaged by fire and broken glass, a path through the woods that we know by heart, yet still frightens us. Depriving us of air with a touch of the lips.
The strength it takes to stand, a mouth twisted into a smile by the sun, splitting rays of dust, aimless wandering with aching joints, the first repressed emotions, stomach in knots and feet heavy from the night before, eyes burning from ribbons of smoke, shivers from an unknown caress, resonating from deep within, sending chills up the spine. Three AM and the world's silence is a stage, shards of gravel in the palms, and the corners of the mouth, bitter and bleak.A warm liquid, chilled by the rough concrete. Fingers breaking under the weight of stupidity, ankles askew, eyes black and midnight blue, masked by the shade of night.
And yet, the softness of moist skin, pearled with desire.Pale torsos, almost milky, without the shadow of a doubt.There, where the afternoon stretches into the distance, we only heard metal tapping on the asphalt and wood, occasionally popping like firecrackers.Surrounding, and hanging around streets, where spit becomes stars, and then dive, futher.
That was our image, nothing more to create.Somewhere on the way, it seems that we are sowing this innocence in profit of an uncertain maturity. What else to do now, if not backfire, forever, and try to watch our shadows. The one which supposedly kept the memory of our soul.And must keep in it, this insolence. If I succed to see it, only through the blink of an eye, I would be reassured.I look at those tense bodies, immobile, which fade away and leave behind the insult of a bygone era.
I remember the beauty of boys not yet men, whose everything inspires the ephemeral, with lack of brutality, latent animality, the birth of their muscles, the drawing of their chest which trace through an unrestrained race.I remember this image applying on the landscape, when the flash congeals them in the dark of the mist. The love which does not appear, but is still here, this fraternity, and this feeling of belonging to a symbol more than to a community.