They talk to themselves. They are talking to their own. Clotheslines, like cats, don't get on well with water. They prefer to stay sheltered from the rain and talk, they don't stop talking even when it rains, but with their hand, I mean with the window, in...
The white becomes immensely dirty white. The garment does not lie, it is defeated. Dull. There are moments when loneliness rhymes in free rhyme with abandonment....
Pink jumper, yes. The colour that was a man's colour until the 20th century. But also the yellow jumper. That daring, rare colour. Sometimes indiscreet, sometimes garish, sometimes shrill. The colour of childhood, usually feminine. As we grow up, yellow becomes grey or black. But who...
A useless clothesline folded on a balcony with useless ropes. Perhaps only the towel is necessary. Poor towel, thrown on the railing, laid on the handrail. It was thrown away, and maybe it wants to throw itself away. If this towel was people...
I have to ask a psychologist why it is that I always picture people dressed in the clothes hanging on the clothesline. In this case only three pieces. One for the feet. The naked woman, I don't know if in front of the mirror or...