It was Winter...lilac dawn...In a forest...wrapped in mystery and fog, the crystal lyre announces the birth of Tristitia Alacre*that..s me* sadness & joy...dreamer, soul like an ancient Bacchante, ghost writer, in her lips...the flavour of perfumed verses...violets caressed by the night..s dew. She brings seven keys, in seven days she can fell...love, loneliness, fear, pain, nostalgia, pleasure, friendship, phobia, laziness, magic, empathy, inspiration, beauty...she cries, she laughs, she plays and sings for her cat, she dances, she whispers to the Moon, to the Sun, she likes picking blackberries, reading, fell the music... when she opens the glass door, the flowers speak and she embraces what does not see...she walks...slowly, barefoot, on ivy...for each tree she hangs a dream catcher, for each grave a kiss...inebriated air...white serpent, distant, alone...the longing of being me...endless opacity...that the translucent dream arrives...sorcery in me...sorry, for my english...When photographing... something sings with silver voice and everything becomes immortal.Layout made by Jewcy..
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