Dreams head off on an azure lilac wild-track, she’s meeting with a secret and never coming back.

This is the closed season of the heart. Life drifts into memory, a life lived apart, a tempest of emotions, a coldness presaging art

Fate comes knocking at the window, and it’s all too fucking late. The flashiness of fashion flirts with God above. Whilst we, intemperate mutants,  search to be satisfied, with the extraordinary ordinariness of love.