Tremors transmit from fingertips to ankles, coldness, the scent of blood makes me dizzy. Is this an art of resurrecting corpses as artworks, or is it purely blasphemy? The most vital organ of life is scattered between my legs, the blood within is always overlooked, a substance that can only be sensed through loss. At my lips, fingertips solidify in death. Needles pierce the skin, again and again, my blood mixes with his. A slight sense of relief, as if the pain in my fingertips is somehow connected to the pain piercing through the heart. I'm on the verge of crying, as everything begins, I can only push it towards the end. This is the only way to push it towards rebirth, to consume it, to become a part of the body or the spirit. In my life, I will forever carry the imprint reserved by this time, just like the lingering scent of blood that cannot be washed away from my fingertips.

Repair a heart - frame at 4m42s