3 Bridges. A poetic prose of ports.

3 Bridges. A poetic prose of ports.

When passing through any kind of port,  or heading to… rather with a luggage or a backpack, you establish a conversation. With the rails, with the pavement, with windows, with advertisements with signs and way findings, with the weight of your on luggage, with the Zebras in your body, with yourself…

Could sound something like this…

St. Pancras

 

You, me, them.

KEF, LHR, PUJ.

Parkway, St. Pancras and Paddington.

Brighton on a bike, Poland on the Ice,
Scotland in a flash.

My way, your way, the way out. Everybody else’s.

 

Late, early, never.

When? Is not a question to be asked.

End. Point of beginning.

Beginning. Point of nowhere.

Enjoy, rejoice. Back.

Where? Is not a question to be answered.

What for? Just because…

By the way, can you follow instructions?

 

3 Bridges. Only one change.

Hop off. There’s no one there.

No helium balloons, no bunch of red roses.

A big No-No.

But a simple  puppeteer… or a bunch puppets.

fa.ll 2018

PHOTO GALLERY:

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