Original Photograhpy - Blog Posts

Dried flowers are constant. They don't change, don't grow, don't rot.

Only turn to dust when their time comes.

Maybe I should've done something else.

Memory of leaves trying to escape from the Iron grips.

It feels as if centuries passed.

Red berries, red red red red red

Bitter, long rotten but still hauntingly beautiful.

There are no stars in the endless sky above our heads.

They were eaten long ago.

They say there is sky somewhere.

I hope I'll be able to see it with my own eyes once.

Once I've dreamed of endless building made of metal. I couldn't see it's beginning nor it's end, only yellow metal and rust.

I met it today.

Houses from afar look almost like toys, with this bright light from windows among darkness of street. I can only look in aw at this light dropping on leaves under my feet.

It is warm.

When batista is making you coffee, you don't have much choice but to look at how textures of wood and stone collide, leaving only everlasting whiteness.

I miss winter.

Comming home, I'm looking at the red lights through glass of empty wooden box that used to be something else.

Smell of leaves fills the air.