The slacking, hanging, weary. Died. Until the stick of the kitchen-maid is transmuted into bowsprit, spur that pierces the world and affirms the rigging of the clohes-line, turning the clothe-ropes into ship-ropes, the cloths into jibs, the tweezers into loff. When wind raises up, the long...
There was party yesterday. The fingerprint stays in the dress, red happy coloured, as a smell of sweat and smile and dance. Is it necessary to wash it alone? Yes, because if not, happiness is diluted. And because there is another party tonight....
Without tweezers, without anything. And there they are, thrown in the crossbeam of the window. It is a recklessness, ins't it? And what will happen if wind get up suddenly? They'll go all on the air. I suppose they do not do it without a...
It s nice to be matching because if one day you have an unexpected urgency and you have to go to the doctor, how is he going to see you if you have the part of above that doesen't combine with the part of...
Clothes hunging in the street up is a beauty. The beauty of sharing. It is a happiness. To hung clothes up in the street is a greeting to neighbors and walkers; an invitation to a conversation, to share, unconsciously, that you are there and...