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Look at them, crying and weeping: housewives leaving a supermarket; security guards, who would prefer art happening in theaters, in restricted areas, controllable and predictable;

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sellers in the drug store, distracted from their jobs by sounds of techno and visions of a guy with a naked torso.

Do they believe artists weep and cry?

As you see, it’s me again, dancing in the middle of a shopping mall in Bremen, having no idea that I will be looking at myself later from another side of a teardrop and smiling mistrustfully, wondering, who is there on the photo.

I believe, everybody cries sometimes, just please, kind reminder, never forget to press the button on your camera, to open a lens, to stumble upon the picture later, in the right moment, and see, that the second of deep mourning and the second of comfort are married for many years, they have children and grandchildren, who already go to school.

And weird disclosure: look at this photo, how creepy it was, and nostalgic, chasing the moment, that memory didn’t hold tight enough, and another teardrop fills the eye, a teardrop with another chemical structure.

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How creepy, I mumble quietly, understanding, that creepiness of the groom is becoming a virtue in the eyes of his beloved bride.

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