"Love then screams in my own throat; I am the Jesuve, the filthy parody of the torrid and blinding sun."
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The Turin Horse 2011
As she opens the door to bring home some water, the harsh noise of the windstorm attacks our ears. The attack is sharp and sudden; you almost get accustomed to the house's interior and, as bleak as it is, it provides a shelter for the characters where the sound of the windstorm gets muffled by the walls.
Another door opens. The horse is standing still. Its life is reduced to work and obtaining the simplest of needs. It's a domesticated…
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