Our mother, she cries, with unceasing tears. She sobs for hours, for days, for weeks. We hear the thundering beat of her broken heart as...

We sing until we choke on the ashes of bleeding forests, we run until our lungs are filled with soot and our hearts sink into the depths...

Born of angels - not a mother, not a father - raised by love incarnate in a vivid world without color, where the harsh contrasts of white on black cease to frame the grainy faces...

Le soleil d’été, les beaux jours dont on rêve dans les peintures. Les Romantiques, les Impressionnistes n’ont jamais vu les Français périr un jour d’été...