The Unsaid is a series about the ephemeral, the desired and the infinite.

It is summer and the heat seeps through the windows as through the pores.
You are here and you are not, present, like someone who appears to give the signs expected of the dead.
It is enough for me to contemplate this thread of light that I perceive, and that tastes like infinity.
It smells of infinity.
The whole of existence is seeping through it.
I embrace this thread with my pupils, so that this instant of eternity does not escape -which at times tastes like future. Like an autumn that will arrive, somehow.

For now, it is summer.