With a step forward and one backward, always between yesterday and tomorrow, we live in a question without answer: does the night end or the morning begin? And if it is a day when we can change everything, why don’t we see it, although our eyes are wide open?

Every man tells two stories: one to themselves, and one to the others. Most of the time, these two stories do not bare resemblance to one another. Most of the time, we wake up and wish we were in another story.

Some people don’t need the others’ approval. They build themselves a pedestal and they climb it. One stupid person is enough to admire them, and you cannot escape their greatness.

The arteries of the city gradually begin to be crossed by cars with drivers who are searching for something, half asleep. Their automatic gestures reveal the monotony in which they bath like in a warm muddy puddle, like a drop of water in the fractured asphalt, sometimes dreaming of being a drop of ocean.

The accomplishments of one person show how much he invested in certain areas of his life and how much he neglected all the others.