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The green that was sprouting signaled my sinking. When you are
underground, the only choices are blooming or succumbing to confinement,
and, as my mother warned, my body, watery and deoxygenated, began
to show signs of defeat.
But that sprouting green was nothing but the sign of rebirth, because a
pair of wings made of lavender sprouted, crafted by her careful hands,
violently embracing my back, my chest, my neck. My body finally freed
itself from that dark prison where blooming had ceased to be an option.

"Oceanide II"


Printed on seasoned linen

66" x 44"

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