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In the beginning there is a text written by Petr Váně.
And in the end of the story there is one room that became
The barely visible path towards books leads across words, across stories, which are told and living. Across my own imagination and dreams, which can just so transform in whatever I want. Any time.
Stories are something we can tell again and again and still we experience them every time in
a different way. Cold feet, shorter branch, strange antlers and cherry juice are sufficient. The boxes are full of stories. Shelves as well. Everything is a story. One of mine was gradually layered on the walls of blue room. In layers of color plasters have sheltered that beings and by scratching to deeper and more colorful paints, I released them.
A fox is under a branch. I can hear a rattle of cinnamon grinder and I read poems by Petr Váně. More and more illustrations arise in the diaries on the walls. Bonding, layering, creak, scratching. They are here. They ship off the book Samozvání on the pallet.