
We decorate our houses with poetry, it is a custom on holidays. The curtains that guard the entrance, are white pages with black stripes of thoughts, baubles are rectangular and eternal, all my visions, curiosities, tormenting doutbs, my love and fear for the human being, the longest living questions, born with the first memory, still alive at present, all hang from the ceiling. Hungry for discovery, drunk with sniffing happiness, wandering through art galleries and museums, I've always longed for a place to sit on and look at the paintings for as long as i wanted, without being embarrassed by my own to much prolonged vertical position. Here, in the decorated room, a timeless bench, you can sit on, awaits you.