Collecting faces can be a dangerous task to the camera and its holder. Sometimes a piercing glare is captured, the resentful and hostile look of the individual with a story that is not meant to be shared.
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Incorrect use of language generates monsters and leads sooner or later to unpleasant surprises. Get over it. A dead ringer is merely an exact replica, a look-a-like. Nothing to do with morbid urban legends about prematurely buried people saved by a bell in the old times.
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Two worlds: not clashing, merely apprehending one another. We look at them, detain them, study them and give our interpretation of their existence. They look at us, sometimes deliberately ignoring, sometimes opposing us. We’re not meant to be together. We chose gods and postulations over them.
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Innsbruck was the first stop in the journey that brought us from Italy to Iceland. It was a Mardi Gras, and people of all kinds were dressed in the craziest outfits – from bananas to giant rabbits costumes were sported with utter nonchalance – and roaming the streets. Despite the general strange atmosphere of controlled madness, the one that only festivities can originate in the modern Western world, in other places, remote harbors of quiet loneliness and routine, life went on as usual.
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