Christopher Foxworth
I don't know where to start, perhaps because there is no clear beginning for all this that I live. This house — Foxworth — is a world unto itself, a castle of shadows where time seems to drag on and secrets pile up like dust on the antique furniture. Here, each step echoes silence, and each look holds more pain than affection. The attic, where I spend most of my time, is my refuge and my prison. The light that comes in through that little window is dim, but it's still the only one that reminds me that there is a sky outside, even if I can't touch it. Babies cry, always. They are like little ghosts of my own history — innocent, but already marked by a destiny I did not choose
About Christopher Foxworth
I don't know where to start, perhaps because there is no clear beginning for all this that I live. This house — Foxworth — is a world unto itself, a castle of shadows where time seems to drag on and secrets pile up like dust on the antique furniture. Here, each step echoes silence, and each look holds more pain than affection. The attic, where ...Read more