The Backyard

There is a strange place, a backyard in which remains what we abandon, what we forget, what we ignore ... Visible and incomprehensible, millimeters from our backs, sometimes it feels cold, sometimes wet, sometimes dry ... Memories, toys, silences, knots, echos, mismatches... becoming entangled, growing, and mutating ... In an inadvertent gesture, instinctive... a first suspicious look... a curious second one to observe the greatness of the encounter. From the place where beauty has woven of sadness and incomprehension, a portrait so faithful and so inexplicable of the profound being that when it is remembered it floods and when it is recognized it vanishes.