The sleeper, real and dear, is carved on the dark.
Minerals of sleep are travelling into him.
Travelling out of him.
Signal leps in his wrist.
Caught to me, caught to my nerve.
ยท
The sleeper, real and dear, is carved on the dark.
Minerals of sleep are travelling into him.
Travelling out of him.
Signal leps in his wrist.
Caught to me, caught to my nerve.
“It’s like an artist who has to paint… Sometimes I’m just taken by something. Sometimes I just refuse it.”
Chantal Akerman