The pond house is a unique corner building. It belongs to a position of loneliness and independence at the same time. Seven generations of braids wrap around thoughtful ears and kiss their foreheads. They whisper ancient stories of secrets and resolve my curiosity. Flies were passing through one ear and toads caught them through the other.

Four sisters are looking through a keyhole and want to find the missing key. While yawning, the moth enters the mouth and apologises for the delay. As it seemed then, the wind is still in charge here. 

Various things show traces of forgotten ghosts. In my reflection, the taste of the dust of nostalgia shines, not indicating a specific place, but rather making the imagination more vivid. A sunset rises from the mouth of a wandering horse, watched by the nearest rocks. Wooden windows open and close, while pockets are full of clover leaves. As you move around the house, covered layers of memories appear. Frivolous thoughts forget about the day's work and gaze at the braided hair.

Remember and forget. Tell and retell. Say and missay.

It's been a long time since we woke up, but it seems like we could still spend time in our memories.