Only the chimney remains, the burnt flesh and the cupboards, the walls, the floor and ceiling are nothing but dust and ash. The few photographs of loved ones from special moments are crumbled black fragments along side the melted tin cans and the locked door knobs, the kitchen chairs, tables and cabinets are all now dead memories; everything felt the heat of hate on their way thru to the majestic gates of heaven. That was world war in Belarus. Thousands of homes hundreds of villages erased, children, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, locked in with their burning hearts, eliminated, burnt black in the most foul manner.

It carries on everywhere with new and unique narrative created and dispersed by the people from the top to the bottom, war is made from the interior panels of the mind of humanity. One against the other. Power, control, the disease of conceit lives well in the healthy and the decrepit, the rich and the poor, the pretty and the ugly; all the colours of the rainbow find their way into this shelter of tangled belief. Respect in authority, in competition, in privilege over the unfortunate, the distain for the weak and stupid, the different ones. We are the believers that walk our brothers and sisters to the chambers of gas and needles. We are the ones that claim we love our sons and daughters and with shallow views we lead them into a world of half human dimensions, into a future we claim to despise. We are the android creators of our destiny, knowingly and blindly we fall in line with the lies. We are the new order creatures of virtual love and fake dreams. We are the chosen ones whom create, enforce and obey the signs towards nano-particle freedom.

images and writing by patrick wey

sculptures by valentine of belarus