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It Is not I who Lives Life; It Is Life which Lives through Me - Ida Lorentze , 2000.
Norwegian , b. 1951 -
Oil on canvas , 130 x 160 cm.
//Stupid, broken mutt.//
solo
We experience life as a continuity, and only after it falls away, after it becomes the past, do we see its discontinuities. The past, if there is such a thing, is mostly empty space, great expanses of nothing, in which significant persons and events float. — Teju Cole, from Open City (Random House, 2011)
[quidnunc]
Nowhere to sit right ⌇