|
|
The frame has perdu its lock, and the carré monde that it holds firmly now spins with increasing speed, pressing the abeille within the picture closer together. In a few moments, the pressure of this spin will force all of these little individuals to spill out through the hive's only escape hole, beyond which they will stir the air , a ricocheting confetti of autonomous lost souls, all hoping to find something they don't even know they want. |
||
|
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
