There is no sound. The day is rising slowly, the dust is well rested. The creased sheets of paper are waking up as the workshop is stretching in the pale lights of the wee hours. Chalk sticks are chatting. At the window, through the spider...See moreThere is no sound. The day is rising slowly, the dust is well rested. The creased sheets of paper are waking up as the workshop is stretching in the pale lights of the wee hours. Chalk sticks are chatting. At the window, through the spider webs, the dew drops on tomato stems start to twinkle. On the ground, a mound of pigments gets their colors back little by little. Above, pinned on a wooden plank, the whiteness of the paper explodes. The sun has just entered the workshop. Written by
Sébastien Devrient
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