A felted light spreads out on the books of our history. I have no words to remind these vague blacks. Come submerge the impertinent greed of these years. Crossed to look for the soul in the splendid melancholy. Taking us beyond the whims of time. It there these mesmerizing scars on the dented pages. Where settled our hands. Captives on an old Italian slow dance. Making dizzy the night and the rain. I have no memory. To curse it. It brought to us. The awake moment to meet. There are our steps towards this path quite over there. In the whimsical light of this unfortunate hour. Where rocks a hesitating light. Waking the breath of our melancholy. Imprisoning the fear in its infancy. Of a present which runs away. Behind the vague blacks of our history. Depression on a disappointment. The infinity. Without reason with the forgery. Of a spot. On the blank pages of a coming to an end book. The lights are going to go out. With the sadness without feigning. Of this wear. The unfortunate one hour. Under the whimsical light. Of the death of a hope. Where the melancholy lost its nostalgia. This evening. I have no words to remind these vague blacks.
J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
