When one cannot but touch those going by the body electric; physical paths carved into concrete as if railway tracks; each life but a corpuscule gliding on alien social rules; it’s not the stacking-up but the voids which make a favela breathe; everything shakes and holds to the neighbours, communal breathing; to live is to ‘disturb’ the dust within the cubes, the crowd flowing through unintended voids.
Email sharing only available when logged in.
Log In or Sign Up now.
Choose a size:
Copy Code: