Death is an independent term. Standing on its own. It depends on no sentence. It is the worst moment of life. There is nothing called sweet death. Death is death. The absence of a being. The finishing of a line.

Visual textures of a mind. Abundance of images of death reaching mind from far or close. Those who were standing in front of us, dancing, looking, talking… Those who were living moments in front of our eyes till we suddenly realized that ‘they were busy dying’. The sentence is full of a winter horror. It should make your eyelids jump. You find yourself standing in front of an installation of recorded moments or moments being recorded, all converging towards a single moment which cuts  you. For anybody observing his actualization, this wound needs to be salved, in an old fashion where death is  escorted with flowers and odours. Death is dreadful if not frightening. Horror of living in the current moment. And escorting… which is becoming a regular thing not changing through time.