In someone’s story there was an artist who was imprisoned and was asked to get involved in a research work of dark matters…
In some week he was found with his wrist open like a newly bloomed blood orchid.
In another man’s story the same artist was imprisoned for the same reason…
But this time he was found alone in a night with constant murmurings of subatomic particles.
Now tell me between an artist and a lovely dictator who wrote the first story and who wrote the second?
I guess the times I have been lost are the times I have found myself more close to the answer.

I guess no art worth something can ever be a fiction.

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Photograph: Javier Molina.

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