It bloomed at the beginning of a gray winter, in lands where the sun hardly ever kisses the ground. It floated in the dense mist, before walking through the barren plains in which the blues merge with the trotting of horses. In those meadows with "law," where politics remains a fraud and television tries to numb the masses, he remains in the lonely desert waiting for a drop of water that will allow him to live for another long time. Life seems simpler when you live with little, he thinks, as the sand contemplates the landscape waiting for the night that brings the cold and, again, the rosy dawn.
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326 MORMURs is born out of personal search, of returning to the roots, so that the branches can grow and find new paths in the air, other ways to communicate. What is necessary? What is not?
How much do we need to live? How do we want to live? What do we want to give to those around us?
These are questions I answered myself to create this shared moment.