It takes so little to embody the femme fatale. To wrap oneself in mystery and glamour. To cease to feel like a fragment in a complex scenario and feel the scenario revolving around oneself. Everybody knows.
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We were all young, once. We were all crossing the street on our Saturday evenings, heading for our pleasures or displeasures. We were all full of expectations, good or bad. We were all better persons, or maybe even worse persons. We were different.
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Man posture echoes his inner dispositions. Likewise architectural lines surrounding him. Strong contrasts and movements in the urban landscape to amplify and make human features long-lasting.
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Some places in the world have the quality – sadly fewer and fewer – to restore everything to its true proportions. Human figures are a speckle in Nature’s balance, and so are their costructions. The path of a human being is long but not eternal. As a long road is only a strip of soil coated in asphalt that weeds and dust everyday threaten to take back.
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The small Icelandic horse in his thick coat of fur doesn’t mind listening to the wise words of the human. As long as crackers are dispensed acordingly to his taste.
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It always surprises me more to see things like a tanker in the middle of nowhere after a long trip than seeing a pink rabbit hopping on a electric blue lawn. And this surely makes the world more interesting. Not that I see many pink rabbits mindlessly hopping, anyway. In case you’re wondering.
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The unexpected breaks now and then Iceland’s natural patterns of snow, ice, rocks and weeds. The textural intrusion of metal wounded by the weather’s inclemency and of other man-made monstrosities bring subdued comeliness into the otherwise alien beauty of the wild scenery.
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Statues and their uncanny lifelikeness. The winter cruelty embraces a small womanly figure sitting all huddled, somewhere. She will still be sitting there when Summer comes, no more asleep in the snow, but basking in the warmth of the Faroese sunrays.
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