Tchaikovsky's symphonic poem.
We’ve grown old, dear friend. Years of infinite tenderness have grafted into our weathered skin like fruit vines.
A poem of love and destruction.
Take every observance, every experience, every unfinished line that is imprisoned within you, and send it off into the beguiling wild.
I walk along the bitter sea. High waters brush against my knee, salt burning from uncertainty - a severed limb left amputee.
I was seized upon the sloping glen when I was twelve years old. You were stolen off the foggy moor, our captor she was cold.
Carry us on your swiftest fleet, entangle our bones in your silvery net, usher us in the glory of your chasm.
And like an untamed child, I steal away, to where everything is illuminated.
She greets you with her warm, terra cotta smile and parisian blue eyes.
A cinematic journey.
We didn't need a story, we didn't need a real world. We just had to keep walking and we became the stories. We became the places. We were the lights, the deserts, the faraway worlds.