Birds

A fighter pilot crashes in the middle of the ocean. Luckily the plane landed on a sandbank. His longing for rescue finally ends through a strange ritual.

Oh, little soldier, jaunting happily towards the war, you pay no heed to the red petal you carry, marking the ones who'll fall. Such petal is the sign of the mustard yellow death that will smother you in the pestiferous, muddy trenches. Not, however, without introducing you to some of the damned that have left already, and who are waiting for you in the fields of desolation.

A dance or a fight of two bodies opens internal dances under their skins. Two lovers curling into each other in the act of love, their fingers fondling tattoos, initiating a mechanism that will allow us to go to the other side of these tattoos, these images, as if we were Alice facing a mirror-door.