I found this photo today, thanx to Oana. It makes me think of Boris’ novel, that one supreme novel I can’t get over, and of women as these thirsty, untamed heartsnatchers. Bearing the burden of all the hearts they swallowed, making it obvious that they won’t survive without carrying the shades and traces of everyone who loved them. When their hearts are empty rooms. In sickness and in health, Boris, once again, we meet.