The Art Of Frida Kahlo Is A

The Clouds Were Disappearing Rapidly, Leaving The Stars To Die. The Night Dried Up.

Love Is When You Meet Someone Who Tells You Something New About Yourself.

It Will In The End, Be Admitted That Everything, In Effect Is An Image And That The Least Object Which Has No Symbolic Role Assigned To It Is Capable Of Standing For Absolutely Anything.

Perhaps I Am Doomed To Retrace My Steps Under The Illusion That I Am Exploring, Doomed To Try And Learn What I Should Simply Recognize, Learning A Mere Fraction Of What I Have Forgotten.

There Are Fairy Stories To Be Written For Adults. Stories That Are Still In A Green State.