A clandestine condition of wayward fairies living on the hinges of a land that always forms a curb—facing the sea, with our backs to the fields damaged by reproaches. Born among cotton wool covered in beehives, we have gutted understanding, but the blood that splashed us was not ours, and they have changed the locks on us, and our mother has collapsed while sirens wail in a time that is in transit—a border line. Hidden in the attic in contorted postures, we paint Indian stripes on the marks of the sheets in case we ever drink at the hands of a gypsy.
Bordering| Carla Fajardo| Vienna Editions