TomiTetzel

I woke up from strange dreams, as iced waters were laid on my lids by dull light of vivid reality. The gears of sight are awakened with the entering of the stale anxiety of urban dust, amongst delicate interstices of pulsating flesh. Rocking at once, rising from the respectable grave of dead and blessed passions, falling to the unwashed glasses of my window; it uncover to me the exhausting landscape of a thousand tins of baltic tuna, anchovies in oil, dried salmon and rarely some ornate jars of expired sturgeon of the Second World War. They are upright like weapons against the demeaning shield of a drab cloak that confounds concrete with sky