The reality I we prepared for, and the reality that we are made to face; the chasm between is too great. It is proper that we weep. But who has time enough to listen to our moans? It is a moribund world.
I haven't done this in quite a while - storytelling through a series of photographs. A professor of mine once told me : There is no other way of understanding poetry except by spending time with it. Never rush in. Linger in every word. Slow down. Slow down, he would say, every time we tried rushing through what we thought were unimportant or insignificant lines while reading Wordsworth. I think this technique of reading and understanding by lingering over the semi tangible medium can be applied in the cases of photographs and paintings as well, or in a broader sense 'art' in general. Of course the best part is always the open endedness, the ambiguity and the possibility of limitless interpretations that the 'forms' allow.
"he sank into the warmth of her and himself, when the nerves of his tongue passed over the invisible down of her skin, the different, goose-fleshed texture of her buttocks, when her weight was on the pelt of his chest, blinded and choked they were flung together, curved round each other like mythical creatures fixed in a medallion of the zodiac."