Bidding us twain upon thy glory call. Harsh light hath rent from us the golden pall Of that frail sleep, His first light seigniory, And we are come through all the modes that fall Unto their lot who meet him constantly.
“His voice draws for me his mouth, his eyes, his face, makes for me his complete portrait, outer and inner, better than if he were in front of me.”
Robert Bresson
INSTAGRAM
BANDCAMP
YOUTUBE