. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . where ImagInatIon comes to play

Tuesday 14 August 2012


Let me out, she cried. Set me free of this skin, coarse and dry as the days I've stood here among you. I don't belong here. I must see about walking, and then, perhaps I will see if my arms might carry me skyward to my sun and my moon. I do not breathe the same air as you. It was with these pleas that she left them, slowly shedding the paper that had covered her words for far too long.

photo: Francesca Woodman


Anthony Duce said...

Enjoyed. A plea made more often with age, I am sure.

Unknown said...

I feel a wonderful story in here. Makes me want more.

Marjolaine Hébert said...

more...yes; more.