Still from The Turin Horse ~ Bela Tarr
At the centre of my chest there is a knot. Not the kind of knot that would hinder your daily routine, but the kind of knot that has been there for so long that it becomes a part of your ghost: threaded through your thoughts and your temperament like gold filigree in the weave.
Like the man, I too am in a position to tell a story. He thinks I do not see what he does; his little scratches on the wall; he thinks I am an ignorant savage.
Like the man, I too am in a position to tell a story. He thinks I do not see what he does; his little scratches on the wall; he thinks I am an ignorant savage.
