not resist life, and life itself depends on its belly.
His mouth tastes decode previously unknown, indecipherable. In his mouth the first words are translated as metaphors well-worn conventions. In his mouth the world is achievable, dear.
Its guiding, if possible, sound foreign to become multilingual in the beginning. Lullabies will not forget once you retrieve the memory is never lost.
odors memories will log significant time deep ties related to distance, anchors potential haven in the midst of a storm. Hopefully.
His eyes invent invisible friends, monsters under the bed, amazing mysteries, adventures always likely. Your hands learn to build towers crumbling battlements as transgressive in order to learn how to stack. His hands have true stories when words are not yet sufficient, sometimes forever tell those hands, less round and more trained. His hands are brushes and pens, cotton wool, chisels. There are few things as beautiful as they kiss the hands of a child.
Iman Maleki, Iranian painter
