Description

"I wish I was a gerbera wrapped in wire so I could stand more firmly in the water. The memories are dark rivers, they meet in my spine and wash me out, the spine is pushed forward, it goes inside through the throat. So much for that. It's not about feelings here. More like places. The place where the rivers meet is a day in August.”

Even today, the dead live on in the memory, because time does not heal the wounds, but illuminates them again and again. Manuel, the dead painter, lies in a white coffin. We throw white roses into the grave.

The thoughts of Manuel, who wishes for a color that doesn't exist, mix with the colorful scraps of memory of Miguel, who feels constrained by love and flies back to Mexico, and of Mary-Jane, who finds her way to herself searches and writes letters from prison. A mosaic of friendship, of love, of brushstrokes that flow into each other.

The memory of the dead is not a lonely place, it is as colorful as the Day of the Dead in Mexico, where death is a folk festival. Thus the place for the dead becomes comfortable in the minds of the living.