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Oksana Dmitrieva

titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!
titolo: My name is Humo
Khiva-Bukhara - it's salt and dust in your eyes. Polished, restored old town that's full of tourists - it's a certain conservation of time for the descendants. But behind it's gates is Life. My name is Humo, - the boy reached out his hand to me. And in his other hand there was a paper bird, fluttering on a string. A bird - symbol of freedom and love, whose name he took for himself. The wind is bad today, hey… Woman gently puts her hand on my shoulder inviting me for a meal in a dinner where she works. In there I encounter an old man who has lost reality long time ago. All that he cares about are the phone numbers of different people and a portrait of the woman. The woman whose name he is asking from every passerby and is searching with hope in my eyes right now. My name is Humo - is stuck in my head. I'm a cold pillow on my head. There are 2 days of the traveling behind my back. I'm slowly drowning into sleep. And through the voices that are merging with the sound of the train wheels, I still see the wing of Humo, which turns out to be just a piece of the sheet. Women are putting their kids to sleep. The morning is coming tomorrow. A man will get out some cured fish and his wife will put hot water into Uzbek porcelain teapot. She will start peeling carefully apples from the last year’s harvest for her grandkids. Children will lure you into their world again where time is endless and life is now. One smile and you are already alongside with them making a kite fly into the sky, speeding on a bike, playing football or just staring at a balloon in the sun. You are closing your eyes, pressing your cheek to the metal construction on the playground just to distract yourself from the scorching sun and to stop and freeze this moment for your descendants - flash of the camera. My name is Humo, - the boy is screaming. Today the wind is my friend!