Imen Sefouhi

When one progresses in the old forest, when crushed under his boots twigs lost by trees, century-old pines, black larch, when we face caressed or beaten by dripping moss, we are in an intermediate universe, in something where everything is tight, where nothing is illusion, but at the same time, it was the disturbing feeling of being trapped inside an image, and move into a foreign fantasy in a bardo where one is oneself abroad, where there is a little friendly intruders, neither alive nor dead, in a dream without end and without time.