England

We meet aging men from the past whose faces are impossible to recognize. They have melted, like blue plasticine scorched under the sun. Blue, because it's violet—an ultra-light from the sun gasping for breath. And right there, in the corner of the window, in this impoverished city, a reminder of an English shrunken plaid draped over a dark beige armchair, the color of a smoker's skin. This image waves at me.

England—beautiful from afar, but up close, it singes the soul. Dark green rubber boots, cold as chewing through the days—stretching and chilling, marking our place on the deathbed.