Black palms dominate the subtropical night, their silhouettes like shadows of lost dreams against the sparkling stars. We, the wandering souls of the night, do not remain silent; we never silence ourselves. Our voices must be heard, like the echo of a scream from our souls in deserted streets.

In search of the holy grail that will numb us and make us forget the pain. The heat of the night seeps into all our fibers, but the promise of the liquid relief drives us forward like an unstoppable urge toward destruction.

Our wanderings pull us from the north to the hot south, writing tools and camera in hand to immortalise the life of a wanderer. The oppressive sound of war machinery mingles with the beauty of the silence of the night in a deserted street.

Shadowy steps lead us astray, as in our dreams. We walk but do not rise, bent under the illusion that keeps us captive. Daydreams have been lost, replaced by nightmares that keep us from our sleep. Nights long. Naked on an open bed, the world outside, the darkness surrounds us.

2022