onsdag den 8. marts 2017

In a landscape that mostly consists of dry, yellowing grass fields and a few gatherings of trees, stories come to life and sometimes hunt you.
I hide in the water beneath the lilies and try not to breathe, shielding myself in remnants from Ende and Lindgren: the innocent poetries of childhood. Soon they will come running over the bridge, so i try not to exist. I try mimicking just another fiction.