Viktor Dimitrov Marinopolsky

A love letter sometimes contains more love than lack, but always contains more pain than love.

I am always elsewhere — in fantasies, memories, daydreams — thinking of a past that could've been different or a future that will never happen, split between fiction and reality, not fully present in either of them. The line between these two is supposedly closest to who or where I truly am. In attempts to locate that line so I could send myself a love letter, I'm exploring different ways of looking at myself (mostly through lines.)