Seven morning sculptures, memories of the night when this bed became a boat in the middle of an ocean of sheets.
In each one of these rooms a particular shape was born, an imaginary character rising out of the night, as though fossilized in the room. A last remnant of the dream’s realm, a single fragment of reality that vanished with the coming of the dawn.
In each one of these rooms a particular shape was born, an imaginary character rising out of the night, as though fossilized in the room. A last remnant of the dream’s realm, a single fragment of reality that vanished with the coming of the dawn.
The brutality of waking up, first, where we abruptly depart from an interior world, only to be projected into the foreign space of a hotel room. As we open our eyes, before we even set foot on the floor, the strange feeling of not finding your bearings has created these
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