As she tastes the salt on her lips, a widow cannot but cry
but what better place to cool down tears, than a cold lover's lap?
The Widow is a visual feast of raw emotions, too delicate to be revealed, too urgent to be hidden.
While faint dialogues transform into perished sexuality, barren reality stifles irrefutable desires -a foolish reverie of what is not.
From a grave that is yet to be dug, inaudible whispers emerge -her parched lips, ready to burst.
As the widow surrenders to the blackened sea, we cannot but partake... our hands comfortably tied.