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Wrapped in gold foil, I see archangels and seraphs. I feel it like a construct cry, a herald with bizzare inner lacerations. A black herald frightened by the eyes that look and do not see. He appears like an admirer of correspondent dramas, laying them insurrectionary on the womențs cheeks, showing himself as being absolutely sad. Even a complex grinding necessary to himself, necessary to us.
Vasilian Doboș, visual artist
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