Bright

Probably the lost dead viking souls are writhing in their absent graves, feeling the urge of mere abstract battle, knowing that we are somehow related. I now imagine my yellow Pegasus coming to life, sitting quietly in my living room, watching all those perfect pictures of us, or still, insignificant, dead, precious things that I like, and me taking pictures of them, with the 50 mm lenses, that I don't yet have. Yeah, it's a bright room, the dust is happily somersaulting this afternoon, as I pour this very green mint tea to your cheerful London experience, our short upper Danube episode turns into this memorable taxi ride. The correct word is white. And blurry. And bright. All this hideous reality turned into a warm yellowish afternoon, with vintage frames on old pictures, designer coffee makers, black prewar lamps, holding contemporary dust and the refurbished blue chair holding your beautiful pose to eternity. Just say nothing, just smile like you always do. It's enough.