I borrowed the huge keys and I got in, well, through the window. Twenty metres from the water of Boka Bay, a tailor’s house is sleeping, surrounded by tall stone walls and full of WWII tailoring magazines.
A place of contrasts of light, and contrast of reason. Decided to decay besides the possibility to blossom. A walk on the floor of ashes, dust and grease. Seemingly infinite halls filled with light, and long, dark and humid corridors.