An impossible dreamsong of childhood, of escape, of anything being possible.
I am in a classical art gallery in London and the portraits all blur into a crowd of static, monotonous...
Elad leaves his pregnant wife home alone with two kids as he gallivants around Israel. But it's ok with her, really. Really, it is.
What is age? What is truth? What is time? If I feel like I’m 18, or 28, or whatever, why can’t I be?
Loving a person who is depressed gives such power to the smallest words.
