“Stable”
We are made of the same stuff as dreams, and in the space and time of a dream our brief life is gathered” (W. Shakespeare – The Tempest).
Sleeping in a stable, sheltered from the cold, wet winters, bent over by a weariness that has no respite from fatigue. Wearing absolute misery. In the dream, that multitude of peasants – of lost existences – I delude myself that they have experienced moments of dignity and liberation. The dream that liberates from the tiredness of life. The life that is enclosed in the passing of a dream.
