“Stories are like vessels to lost times. Everything is unreal, and yet everything seems so much truer sometimes. Some kinds of stories don’t need words to be told, they need a brief fragment of time, to unveil their secret, to unfold the time and place they’re taking you to. And that melancholy, that invades the scene, like thin dust on an old picture, that is beauty. Don’t mind the stinging misery or dazzling stupor, the lost innocence or the delicacy, the unbearable solitude or the overwhelming lightness, anything that’s fragile and brief, that’s slipping away as you’re looking at it, that’s a story. Mine talk about utter freedom, the unsophisticated and truest kind. The one that blossoms in simpler souls, clear like spring water, or in dark spirits that run in madness. Mine talk about kindred ones, and fearless love, times when there was no place for arrogant ambitions, and wanting less, meant feeling more.” – Written by Cristina Fiore
February 27, 2016
