♱ szymon , erkek
                    The cameraman is unseen, of course. He's somewhere beyond our plane of vision, somewhere in the wasted hills, caught in the oval of a hand mirror. He flashes briefly in the mind of a dying grandmother, somewhere in the dark lake, the laughing woods. He makes up words and the music to go with them, he is a jack-of-all-trades, and handsome. He loves us very much.