EVERY NIGHT HE DIES IN MY HANDS
Screen print, etching
Poetry: Erez Shachar
INSIDE DOUBT
BLOCK 22
OSTRANENIE
I CAN FEEL THE MONKEY
WHEN EVERYTHING ALIVE BECOME
EVERY NIGHT HE DIES IN MY HANDS
LAND WORKER
In the end, you need to exist
And at Genesis?
I applied for a visa to the land of the lonely people
I have been told that my loneliness
is not what they are looking for.
Sorry are you a human
Sorry you
Human sorry
You human sorry
You
Human
Sorry human you sorry
You human
Sorry you human sorry
You human
You human sorry
You
*Sorry*
Chained to a room
Under trunk of memory
To loneliness
In stalk of knowledge
Wrapped
To the metallic
Heating bars
Stubbornly sobbing
From here
I will not be taken.
