What I hide by my language, my body utters.

“Think of someone you want to touch whom you cannot touch, someone forbidden. Think of a room where there is nothing except the two of you: still, you cannot touch them. Think of the heat between two hands about to touch, the language that exists in that silence.”

"If love is an archive, someone else might inherit it and experience it anew. One day, the photographer and the dancer might return to a memory of the present, in this present."

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire. (ROLAND BARTHES’ A LOVER’S DISCOURSE)