Dear Mother by Lo.Flaco, Jule Nottrott

For the golden past that never was. For the homecoming to places we've never been. Traces of some inexplicable nostalgia, of a heaven forsaken ere we knew its name.
The sunlight was already falling, dying soft behind the hills, when there came—sudden as tears upon a mirror—the epiphany.
Breathing.
Softly, deeply, yet more vital than the mockingbird's trembling wing, than the nightingale's singing.
The ink began to flow unbidden across the sheet, as though some invisible hand guided mine own trembling fingers.

Dear Mother...

Electronic and Organic Music Producer. Milano//Berlin//Stockholm.

Personal accomplishments include a novel, some booklets of poems and a passion for latin literature. Everything else has already been said elsewhere.

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