If art which transmits more is the one that hurts most, my letters are born from my blood.It’s your condemnation, mine as an artist, yours as a muse. Being the glass, which gets drunk with my success and the cloth that dries my tears.You are the reason I struggle for and my deepest desire. The promise that in all my words your essence is inscribed.I write about the bravest thing I have. Brave the love and the freedom. Brave our love and you, my freedom.
Rose