We are in one of those sizzling summer days when the air is so dense that it seems you can see it moving. The whole scenery of the beach looks like a blurry painting. It is slightly waving when someone passes by. It's been a while since I'm here, motionless, my cheek half-covered with the sand. I'm pressing my ear tight to the ground and if there is a hidden life underneath, I can hear it. Along with the wash, I can spot patches of dialogues in never heard before dialect. In my theory, these are lost and forgotten objects and stories. I don't understand a word, but I keep listening in the hope I can catch a vague voice of something I dropped something important without notice, and now it screams and whispers for me to find. Or maybe it's already dead.
Cut It. I Won’t Cry. Or how one evening adventure can last for years.
When I moved to Lisbon at some point, I felt like a soldier on a mission. Besides the exciting feeling of novelty offering unlimited possibilities to rewrite my entire life, I felt like I had to cut every excessive piece of my personality. Starting with hair.
From Alien to Alien. The true story of his life.
We are in this Victorian-type bathroom somewhere in Amsterdam. It’s few moments before the sunrise. The faint light from the window in a wooden frame painted aged white catches a worn-out ornamented rag in front of the tab. A typical room of a maid who once had tea with Darwin and walked dinosaurs.