This is an automatically translated description

The rooms breathe with drafts, and those that are closed suffocate. Do you hear the body of our common loneliness, embalmed by time and preserved by the cold that did not allow someone's beauty to turn into fertiliser for indoor flowers, not breathing in a forgotten room? As you flow through the vessels of your small apartments, listen to the drafts on the other side of the forgotten rooms, breaking against the doors that are closed tightly. The cracks smell like pine resin, which continues to flow like blood in a tree that has lost its roots.