Je n’avais jamais dis je t’aime (à ma mère)

On a bleak thin bedstead lies a white bathtub full of blood like a gruesome cradle. A white shower curtain holds itself up vertically, but you can’t see the string from which it is suspended. It extends into the red liquid with which the tub is filled. The very unsettled brown background is littered with inscriptions reminiscent of words never uttered or downright hurtful ones.