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We are psychic seasons. We are summer and winter, free and imprisoned in ourselves. Be prepared for existence and never supine to the modularity of changes, intermittent in discomfort and eternally undecided to accept help for which we are unprepared. In this singsong painting: between opening a passage from a prison that one has self-imposed and sewn onto oneself, but which gives us insecurity and the spatial coordinates from which to parameterize the world, and crying on oneself as a sweet lullaby.
