My eyes are arid and cold on a portrait’s insides. I am time-hardened wax and I can see wide! fungus and frost have fondled my frontside and I – did he wonder and wander in small ages? did he forget that I died? he’s older and ugly and a beautiful baby, he’s retinal mist. far away, far away, leaning and turning, I moan and I list!“Dead Eyes Open” – Cinema Strange
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