Return, turn over the leaf, it was right here when I stitched it.
This time was the last time.
I’ll never bend back again!
I was inside the stone. She sealed me inside her.
I often thought my heart was of glass, but it couldn’t break.
Inside me was the stone.
I fall asleep.
This time I will cut them off.
Woke up again with the doom hands.
I try again!

What is real?
What is not a dream.
What is the dream?
Lost memory.

They say that the stick of truth is in the hands of the blind.
That we will never know the truth.
Why is that?
Unaware! Has no passion or wisdom.
The world is bad news, for those that do not want to know.
And when you know, there is no world.



'Not Forgotten but Dreams of Memory'
Galleri St: Gertrud
Malmö, 2018