[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
my creepy self on the left ;)
A video sequence of the stage manager from “Our town / Luxembored? En dokumentaresche Prozess.”
Lionel, 99, and his wife Ellen Buxton, 100, met in March 1930, married on July 18th 1936 and have been inseperable ever since.
The couple, together a total of 82 years, have not spent more than one night apart.
Upon speaking of their marriage, Ellen says:
“We have never been apart really and have never wanted anyone else. We have been married happily because we have been good friends as well as husband and wife.
We have always made sure we have had nice evenings out together. Whether it is going for a romantic meal or out to play bingo
‘We are more in love now than ever. We keep each other going.
This is beautiful!!!
Lionel, 99, and his wife Ellen Buxton, 100, met in March 1930, married on July 18th 1936 and have been inseperable ever since.
The couple, together a total of 82 years, have not spent more than one night apart.
Upon speaking of their marriage, Ellen says:
“We have never been apart really and have never wanted anyone else. We have been married happily because we have been good friends as well as husband and wife.
We have always made sure we have had nice evenings out together. Whether it is going for a romantic meal or out to play bingo
‘We are more in love now than ever. We keep each other going.
This is beautiful!!!
Kontrollierte Atemnot
[© mïla mińsk-mitskiewicz]
Kalte Asche
Sie Zwischen uns lagen Plastiktüten nur, ansonsten waren wir uns eigentlich ganz nah; wenn da dieses Plastik nicht gewesen wäre. Ich weiß noch immer, als ich dich das erste Mal wirklich sah - wahrnahm - meine ich, denn gesehen habe ich dich schon immer.
Er Das erste Mal war auch mit Plastik verbunden, es scheint dieser Kunststoff zu sein, der uns zusammenhält. Ich meine das klingt zwar komisch, doch ich habe einen gesunden Verstand, hab’ ihn noch nicht nach Aserbaidschan versandt. (kurze Pause; Stimmungswechsel) Es gab eine Zeit, in der warst du meine gesamte Welt.
Sie Zwischen uns lagen Plastiktüten, immer schon. Sie waren im Weg und haben mit sich einen negativen Lohn gebracht. Sie haben verhindert, dass wir uns zu nahe kamen, dass wir uns spüren und fühlen und berühren und wirklich lieben lernten - im angemessenen Rahmen. Sie waren schon immer eine Barriere und manchmal auch ein Schutz. Warst es du, der sie nicht bei Seite legen wollte, oder war es ich, die sich hinter ihnen versteckte? Zwischen uns lagen Plastiktüten, immer schon.
Er Zwischen uns liegen Plastiktüten, immer noch.
heroes incorporated
[© mïla mińsk-mitskiewicz]
In his room, in four walls. Squarish.
He feels so circular. Although, he should be rectangular. Enclosed in those walls, he is starting to get bored, so he plays with his eyeballs. Untill one of them falls on the table next to the spoon. This actually reminds him of a story and so he recalls himself about the lost waterfalls of the Full Moon.
Then he hears the click of the lock, a knock for the trick, a brick in the block. and the clock makes a tick. Such a hollow sound as the hand goes around, the eye is no longer round. But it still makes him feel bound to his profound body of much more than one pound. But maybe one day this will turn him renowned. Who knows, so much can happen on these pleasureful grounds.
He can not swallow the supposing and proposing of his mind. A memory of what he did. Might have done. It seems imposing, self-exposing, he can barely bare it. Why didn’t he act in the opposing? Why didn’t he act like his fathers’ son? During all that thinking the eye starts decomposing. And he can hear yet another sound - as the window is slowly closing.
So he sits there tonight and he thinks it might be only right to write. The light’s turned off, all you can faintly hear is a bark somewhere down in the park and somehow he has a flash in his mind of his private loan shark.
He ponders how it might be to have a bed, while lays down on the gray ground.
Should he pretend that he’s dead or should he eat the last piece of bread? All that while he plays with a piece of thread. As the memories collide there on the ground, he sees pictures of horse and hound and only then all the shallow hollow sound seems far away as if it had drowned.
Position changes. Back against the sore door is where he continues this endless war. He lets out a runty roar. He’s guessing he’s gone insane from all that pain. It feels as if a plane ran right through his brain and from now on he could carry the rain. As if on cocaine everything starts spinning from all that drilling grinning noise that seems to be winning against him already since the beginning. He wishes himself back to Bahrain.
No, that is not fair. He’s not the first to have some woolly thoughts, mazy tears coming from a hazy mind. So why do they keep saying that he has gone crazy? only because he can smell the white daisy, that she wore in her hair?
He feels so alone the clone that we talk about here.
