ne time you find yourself in a park, on a bench, looking into space, and for a second you forget which country you are in, whether it's morning or evening; you are pierced by a pang of loneliness, your heart becomes light and sad, what is important separates out from all the noise of the world, and the slipping, sliding shadows fill with meaning profound... Words come to mind... "South. Border" is my present to myself, a little window to the house I will never be able to build, a house of silver and light.

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