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I live in a mini loft with a mezzanine. Fifty square meters spread over six meters in height. This space once constituted the large kitchen of a noble house, with frescoes on the walls, before that it was a blacksmith's workshop and even earlier the stable of the old castle. More than six hundred years of history protected by four walls eighty centimeters thick, vibrating with the unbreakable skeleton of river stones that have flowed alongside it for centuries. This house is solid, very solid, eternal and its "inside" is safe. But the ancient iron grilles on the windows, made of wrought iron, which protect from the outside, represent the scars of a constant battle with the daily tribulations that time has continually inflicted on anyone who lived here.
In this ancient heart of mine, armored on the outside and therefore very fragile at its core, I let in very few people. Lori is one of them. Her voice and her words are the last tear before I fall asleep, the sigh that swallows the hope of a security that is becoming ever more fleeting. Lori Carson tightropes over my fears and reconfirms them as foundations of my balance as well.
Without them, even these bastions would not be enough.
"You are the petal in the rose, but beware of those thorns." (Petal)
P.S.: I have written two other reviews on Lori Carson. For technical details, you can go there.
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