gazing through the tambourine, hiding behind veil of hair, rewarding the beholder with a WarHoles'ian mien...
what stories could have been told taking their shape at the b12 in leipzig with our beloved partners in crime from baits.
the forgotten stand for the snare drum down the weeping hole that once was our haven. the severed v-belt and no damsel wearing stockings to save the van was in sight. but still there were the two
spanish architects willing to kill the time. and I was hungry shopping for perceptions. I tiptoed along the corridors without missing out on watching the light disappear behind closed
doors.
where are we going you might ask.
shut your eyes little amateur and expose yourself.