Remember what a beautiful weather it was? A holiday weather! And I walked coatless. Today you’re here, and they have arranged an utterly gloomy and cloudy day, it rains, and it’s getting unusually late. The rain drops run down the cold terrain, unsoothable by word, unwipable by hand.
something once happened in here, once in here there were more than the ghostly remains of the what once was. love was once shared in here, and the house’s walls were stained…
love is the blackest of all plagues, and the only pleasure would be to die of it. but it almost always passes. […] if everything is imperfect in this imperfect world, love is the most perfect in its perfect imperfection.
- 🅱️ingmar 🅱️ercman, 1957 (probably)
the most tragic thing was not the child abuse or the child abandonment but the way bro fell in love with a girl and then that girl BECAME his sister 😭😭😭
bodies framed like unearthed roman sculptures: sweat, arms, torsos, legs intertwine. two orbits that come together almost magnetically. an unspoken expiry date that has been non-consensually set even before the first glance. the fruit-filled (pun intended) Italian countryside as a setting for vulnerability, awakening and eventual sore realization, where even the tenderest of touches and the most poetic of exchanged words are met by the universe with nothing but unwanted, aching futility.
