ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders, wept with love on seeing Itacha, humble and green. Art is that Itacha, a green eternity, not wonders. ㅤㅤ(..) Sometimes at evening... 📺 there's a face that sees us from the deeps of a mirror. Art must be that sort of mirror, disclosing to each of us his face. To gaze at a river made of time and water and remember time is another river, to know we stray like a river and our faces vanish like water. To feel that waking is another dream that dreams of not dreaming and that the death we fear in our bones is the death that every night we call a dream. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ