We just let go eachother and now we are trying to awaken ourselves from the coma.

Dreams never end. Often they come to see me

but

tomorrow will be an unusual day.

They will be here with me and I will keep them tight.

For them, the night seems much longer than our nights and we wait patiently and we champ at the bit stressed to see the day.

We are just tender patch of flesh, bones and fears. More than ever.

Your influence on me is oppressive.

I am here. We are here.

The light seeps through the great white window and the time goes slowly.

And we keep on waiting the day.

Bones are breaking

and
You can see the the rifts disseminating in the mirror

But in this city there is too much fog for living. And your skin smells lovely like Camelia.
Is you coffee warm enough?
                                                  - No, I just want to rest.

And your eyes are red. And your face is pale.

And yet I didn't recollect faded photographs.

                                             You have a magnificent iris when you don't gaze.
And I am just flesh.

All around her room, while she's in deep agony.
There are some creatures that fly upon her body.
They seem like dancing while the air passes through their fleeble wings, letting them glide.
They flop down chaotically and in transport they hit her, they cover her eyes with their huge misshaped wings.
They grasp, envelop and choke her. It's an undefined, convulsive, crippling huddle.

It's daytime.                                                           It's night time.                                                           It's distortion.

It's now, It's after.

It's a nightmare, an endless nightmare.

AUDERE TRIBOLACIO

December, 26 MMXII

 from Unfinished story.

"Departed, chocked to death."

Ancients tell that flowers hide thousand secrets, many ways of speaking.
On a not so dark twilight she came again to the cemetery. This time that front of souls was in tribulation: a new arrival shattered their rest.
A faint and sensitive maiden came there, waiting for the Great Substance, so that she could reach the abyssal trifle.
This shining beautiful creature laid motionless, crystallized in the fog.
But as days pass by nobody appeared to pick her up.
Soon her rose-coloured fairness changed in a vague and pallid figure of what she was.
At the time, the Sensitivity showed up.

She was the black-dressed lady, forced to stroll forever in that lawn of death.
She carried a pure white flower. This flower was a little donation from the not-being for the endless beauty.
From that time the maiden lingers there as the given flourishing flower.

But she still waits, in this dream.

This is a story of a gaunt maiden so pallid and fragile that she couldn't go out.
The only way to connect herself with our world was a tiny oval window that overlooked upon a little wood.
This poor lady often sat in front of this glimmer of life and she described what she saw through this window on a small shred of paper .

But day by day her sorrow grew so that she was not be able to define the beauty of that sight anymore.
Her words became even more harsh, little pieces of her heart turned in ink and all her affliction and sadness won the day.
Everything which her body expressed was nothing more than the mirror of her grief.

And so her agony started, on a cold winter morning.

Wide wounds made their own way on her little fleeble pinched body; soon black and blue marks swallowed her face.
Tiny cuts appeared under her little hands.
Her wrinkled lips turned in a sick blue.
Her blood stopped flowing through the green veins of her narrow wrists.
Her gaze, gloomy and vitreous, kept on staring that wood full of vitality.
That flowered-dressed creature had the death on her heart.

When she weeps for what it has been lived, there is no God from the Netherworld who comes to comfort her.

When she tosses out and hit against the walls of her conscience, nothing comes out. A dark quiet and obscure and sweet.

Flowers withered by then spring back again from her eyes. To give birth to death, to create death from life.

And she lingers there, silent. 

She clings to them and she feels them like her children.

She breathes them and she feels like her mother.

Suddenly she leaves them, she eclipses and lets them spring, because her presence makes them fade.

[unfinished story]

This is a particular story.
This is a story of a girl, who felt the solitude of the deads. She often went to the cemetery just to talk with them, read stories or singing.
And often the dead ones were lighten up. She felt it and she knew it.

She found these gravestones so close to her.
Her white-browed image was the same colour as the stones.
Crests and tales were written on the statues, and she loved so much touching them, listening to them, taking part in that silent feast.

She was that burial place. Cold and marble.
But empty.

Dead, yet kept alive by a weak lip of flesh, a vague spun of bones.
And dreams.

Departed, chocked to death.

LATE AFTERNOON

Lovely afternoon with my Dear M. 

Tonight I will be hidden among some illustrations of my Master, M. while drinking a cup of strong  black coffee. So inspiring.

This night I will also start to write down some ideas for my future work.

Although I'm sick now, I can't stop thinking about how many images flash in my mind. I need to rest, but I won't, I know. Tonight I dreamt a lot, and when I felt the ache growing, I started to daydreaming.
I saw these beautiful creatures dancing all around me, and suddenly I felt a deep chill in my bones.
One of them set on my rib and I became ghost-white. She was the death and she was slowly taking my soul. At last, she flown away: I was not dead, I was chose by her to bear her mark.

This morning I silently woke up and made a portrait of her.
Soon she will come back, and I will be ready to show.

Today I went to the antiquary with my M.

While we were walking, a little moth settled upon the hair of my Dear and I gentle picked her up. She was so graceful and she whispered something I couldn't understand, then she flown away. This gave me inspiration for a new story to tell you, and soon I will take some photos.

When we got there, we bought this magnificent victorian painting and these little portraits. I am thinking to fill my workspace with these.

When I am at home, I use to observe all the pictures that hang all around the walls.

I see places so vivid in my mind that i feel I am inside one of them. 

I feel flowers in my mind, thorns inside my body. 

So fascinating.

MORNING TEA

Good morning.
Breakfast with some homemade biscuits.

And suddenly started raining. 

My intimate,

my child,

my precious.

You.

All of my photos will came out from my fears.
From our dead bodies, yet still alive 

for our sorrow. 
                                                        A. 

In these days I have been very depressed because I am still chased by my fears. I am scared of being dull and conventional. I am scared of not showing that I am up to the task.
So I am 
still here, writing about

nothing.

Tomorrow I will be in the wood in contact with nature, looking for inspiration.
This will be my beginning, despite it's a long time I don't take any photographs. I feel I could change everything, I feel I could start all over again.

Maybe, this is the right one. I need this right one.

I will put my life into the darkroom for a while.