(Love) behind the garden is a nostalgic reflection on fragmentary memories that you want to play on a vinyl record player instead of music;
This is how I imagine consciousness. An empty space on which pictures from a past life are pasted in flashes: a trace of lipstick on a mug, red shoes, lace curtains, the sound of the ocean. There's definitely love out there.
We have no control over the emergence and disappearance of memories. I wish I could just burn them onto an old CD so I could sneak into a secluded place and play a movie in my head. What if I ever forget him?