![](https://format.creatorcdn.com/162abed5-4330-4e16-970e-2ed8a085aec7/0/0/0/0,0,1920,1080,1920,1200/0-0-0/50e763e2-ebfd-43bc-8142-8eac51c13ee5/1/1/keten_strand_.jpg?fjkss=exp=2037511477~hmac=836fced591974ee8cfaab462c516a4c509d9fe5e7f3fab87d5b52d453d951f44)
As she tastes the salt on her lips, a widow cannot but cry.
But what better place to cool down tears, than a cold lover's lap?
The Widow is a visual feast of raw emotions, too delicate to be revealed, too urgent to be hidden.
While faint dialogues transform into perished sexuality, barren reality stifles irrefutable desires -a foolish reverie of what is not.
From a grave that is yet to be dug, inaudible whispers emerge -her parched lips, ready to burst.
As the widow surrenders to the blackened sea, we cannot but partake... our hands comfortably tied.